A Creature Stirs
by Linnie McCary
Summary: The Winchester brothers deal with Christmases past and present as they hunt a killer in the Colorado backcountry.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**__**: **__I don't own anything "Supernatural," although there's a painting in my house that certainly makes odd noises. This story includes the lyrics to some pretty traditional Christmas tunes, and I don't own those, either._

_**Spoilers**__**:**__ This story is set in Season 2, after "Bloodlust." Maybe a little spoiler-y about that episode. There's mention of the roadhouse. _

_**A/N**__: This is my first-ever fan fiction, prompted by the holiday, by the awesomely talented writers I found on this site, and by a too-long hiatus from our boys. There's a little bit of language; it's not my intention to offend anyone. The story is un-beta'd (that's how new I am to this whole experience), so all mistakes are purely my own. I hope with trepidation that you enjoy this first part of my winter's tale. _

**A Creature Stirs**

_The sheep lay together on the bedding grounds, quiet and still under the clear Colorado night sky, the old herder watchful as he raised a cup of cooling java to his lips. The snow was late this year—not that he minded, not at all—but it was unusual that it had stayed at the higher elevations so far into December. Maybe it was that global warming he'd been hearing so much about recently, although it was still pretty damn cold. Funny how something like the climate of an entire planet might change, while some simple things—sheep-herding, for example—seemed almost eternal._

_The herder shifted where he sat, back against a rock, settling into a more comfortable position so he might catnap while the flock slept. Suddenly, however, they were on their feet, bleating wildly, milling in panic. The herder was up in an instant, coffee cup dashed to the ground, rifle in hand as he peered through the darkness to discover the trouble. From the far side of the flock came an eerie, snarling cry that raised the hairs on the back of the herder's neck, and then the sheep were fleeing toward him, around him, over him in their haste to escape from—_

_Only his mad scramble to the top of that rock had saved him from serious trampling, and it took him until morning to sort things out, round up the scattered flock, now grazing peacefully in small bunches under the pines. He managed to find them all, all but one—and then he wished he hadn't found that last one. Its bloodied remains lay strewn across the bedding grounds, a haunch here, the head there, ripped apart by something with inhuman strength. The carnage sickened him, and he vomited suddenly as the realization struck that every piece of the maimed sheep lay on the ground before him. Whatever had done this had left every last, bloody piece._

**SNSNSN**

"Dean!" Sam's exasperation was evident from his tone, just as Dean's fractious stubbornness was evident from the tight set of his mouth. "Why can't we just go to the roadhouse and spend one Christmas with people we actually know?"

"You know _me_, Sam," Dean replied brusquely, his eyes never leaving the road ahead, and Sam knew that that particular conversation—if you could call it a conversation—was at an end.

The current hostility between them had begun the day before, rising quickly out of nothing more than too many hours spent together on the road, confined by bad weather to the car and to a rat-hole of a motel room just outside Denver. No blows had been exchanged, nothing sharper thrown than a few pointed glares and prickly remarks, but all bets were off if the friction lasted much longer.

Irritated, Sam threw himself into the corner of the Impala's seat and passenger door, arms folded across his chest, long legs arranged in the foot-well as comfortably as possible, which still meant cramped. When Dean was in a mood like this, Sam had learned that often the wisest course of action was just to wait it out, but Sam's own mood was also surly, and taking a rapid turn for even worse. Attitude steamed off the brothers in palpable curls, unspoken words heating the air around them.

Sam reached out and turned on the radio. The music was instant, perky and riddled with static. "…was a jolly happy soul, with a corn—" Dean snapped it off.

"Jerk!" Sam muttered, but the expected truculent response never came.

Sam sank back into the corner again and glowered out the window at the passing woods.

**SNSNSN**

Sonofabitch Christmas. Dean poked at the red-hot coals of his anger, daring them to flare, wanting them to ignite, craving anything to distract him from having to think about Christmas. He didn't know why the holiday bothered him so much—it had never meant much to him, given their family's history. But there had been times….

_He'd be lying to himself if he said he remembered Christmas in Lawrence. He'd been too young, had no recollection of an ornamented tree in the living room, gaily wrapped presents lying beneath, Mommy kissing Santa Claus. But he remembered Sam's early Christmases, when their father had _(abandoned them—he whisked the words from his head)_ left them in Wisconsin, in the gentle care of Jim Murphy, the young Winchesters cooed over by the warm, generous ladies of Jim's congregation, while John pursued whatever damned creature he was pursuing, oblivious to his sons' wants or needs, driven only by his obsession to destroy whatever it was that had taken his beloved wife from him._

_Dean was a guarded seven and Sammy a guileless three the first time they had "boarded" with Pastor Jim. Of course there had been all the trappings, then—creches and Christmas carols and eggnog and presents. The parsonage was cozy, inviting and seemingly constantly filled with Jim's parishioners, who plied him and his two new charges with cookies, home-baked breads and steaming Thermoses of hot chocolate; colorful knit scarves, mittens and caps; hand-made cars and planes carved from blocks of wood; fresh-cut fir boughs to decorate windowsills and mantel. _

_The church was also intimate and warm, beautifully decorated for the holy season. While Pastor Jim oversaw choir practice in the last days before Christmas, the boys sat quietly in a back pew, Dean with his arm around Sammy's thin shoulders, each child alert, both watchful for quite different reasons. Between rehearsals of "The First Noel" and "O Little Town of Bethlehem," choir members sought to entertain the boys with spirited recitations of "Twas the Night Before Christmas." Sammy had eaten it all up, eyes wide with delight and wonder, tummy bulging with devoured gingerbread and gumdrops. _

_That first year, as part of an ill-advised attempt to stage a living Nativity scene, Pastor Jim had borrowed a burro from a local farmer. Catching his first glimpse of the long-eared equine, the three-year-old Winchester youngest had shrieked with incredulity at the animal he took to be a "waindeer," then run in excited circles until he fell down, gleefully exhausted. The church ladies who witnessed it were devoted to him ever after, happily repeating the story of the child's charming mistake until the entire congregation identified Sammy as "Waindeer Boy." _

_When their father heard the tale—John came for his sons just after the new year began—he said sternly, "Dean, don't let them fill your brother's head with that nonsense," and Dean had promised not to. _

_Sonofabitch Christmas._

Dean stomped down hard on the memory and on the accelerator, sending the Impala snarling even faster along the winding mountain road.

**SNSNSN**

"How far are we out of Stoner's Well?" Sam peered out the passenger window from under unkempt brown hair. It was the first time in an hour that either of them had spoken—between them, the Winchester brothers had raised ill-tempered brooding to an art form, and this morning was a classic example.

They were coming down out of the Sangre de Cristo range into the backcountry foothills of southern Colorado, leaving the snow behind as they descended, the Impala's heater warding off the chill nicely.

"Maybe forty miles," Dean grumbled, still moody. "We'll be there by 10:30. That where the mutilations are?"

"Well, rotational grazing requires a lot of acreage, but a dozen sheep have been found slaughtered, eight of them within a 30-mile radius of town."

"Great," Dean muttered. "This is just how I want to spend Christmas--playing freaking Bo-Peep on Humpback Mountain."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Brokeback."

"Huh?"

"It was 'Brokeback Mountain,' Dean, and Little Bo-Peep _lost_ her sheep. You're such a cultural illiterate."

"Well, excuse me, Mother Goose."

"And you had at least one other option about where to spend Christmas, so don't bitch to me about coming here."

"Dude, enough!"

The next silence lasted ten minutes before Dean broke it, voice tight, jaw clenched for no apparent reason, and even that pissed Sam off.

"So we're thinking these sheep mutilations are—what, exactly? Werewolf?"

Sam sat up in his seat, working a kink out of his right shoulder. "No, the moon's wrong for that, although whatever's doing this seems to be nocturnal. Wendigo, maybe?"

"Or fangs. We've seen that before--vampires chowing down on cattle, anyway."

"Yeah, but I don't think it's vampires, either. Dean, these sheep are torn apart—something just rips them to pieces. Sometimes their throats are torn, but there's no sign that the killer is drinking their blood or even eating them. Which is why your garden-variety wolves also don't seem likely."

Sam grabbed a sheaf of papers off the dashboard, glancing cursorily through them. "The feds are keeping tabs on the Colorado wolf population as part of a recovery program, and there's evidence that for every confirmed head of livestock killed by wolves, maybe half a dozen more animals just go missing. But the thing is, the carcasses are either found, or the cattle and sheep go missing entirely, probably eaten by the wolves and other carnivores. But recently, _these_ sheep—they're slaughtered and then just _left_ there. The local papers are saying that these are like no animal attacks ever seen."

Dean thumped his thumbs against the steering wheel, beating out a little rhythm that Sam couldn't identify. "Wendigo wouldn't leave carcasses," the older Winchester mused, then cut his eyes at his brother. "And even if it isn't fangs, we still might run into Gordon, you know, if he's checking things out."

"So what if we do, Dean? Since when do we worry about Gordon?" Sam didn't know and for the moment didn't care why Dean's comment made him angry. He tossed the papers back onto the dash, and Dean glared at their untidy spill.

"Since maybe he thinks you're a vampire-loving freak, Sam!" he shot back. "Last time he saw us, you were all touchy-feely with Lenore, and I've got to tell you, the dude's not the type to ask questions first, shoot later."

"So now it's my fault that Gordon's a vigilante with a hard-on for vampires?"

Dean smacked the steering wheel hard with the flat of his hand, the air thick again with tension. "Sam, _we_ are vigilantes! Or we were, until—" He paused, clearing his throat, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "Anyway, we're not the freaking Humane Society. What, we've got to protect herds of sheep now?"

"Flocks," Sam responded tightly.

"Well, fuck you, too!"

"Dean, I said fl—"

There was a wailing sound from the back-seat, rising and falling like a muted siren, and the brothers looked at one another in surprise.

"What the…?" Dean glanced back over his shoulder, then thought better of it as the S-curves of the mountain road demanded all his attention.

Sam turned in his seat and rummaged in the duffel bag, rooting around until he withdrew the source of the discordant sound. The needle on the EMF meter was swinging sharply into the red. Sam tapped the little indicator against his palm, but it continued to wail.

"Pull over, Dean. We should check this out."

There wasn't much of a shoulder on the road, and they had to drive another half-mile or so before finding a turn-out. By then, the signal had faded. Dean popped the trunk, withdrawing a flare gun, sawed-off shotgun and several cartridges of rock-salt, while Sam extracted the duffel bag from the back seat.

"You want anything out of here?" Dean asked, and Sam pulled out his heavy jacket, shrugging into it quickly. Dean followed suit, slipping more cartridges and a few silver-dipped rounds for his handgun into his pocket, then slammed the trunk shut. "Let's go."

They jogged back up the road until the EMF meter came to life once again, this time the signal weak and failing. There was nothing—fresh roadkill, blood painting the asphalt; a bird calling somewhere nearby; air still biting despite the morning sun. Just to be sure, Sam waved the meter over the remains of the opossum, caught Dean looking at him in disgust, moved away quickly. Three steps closer to the uphill side of the road, and the signal wheezed faintly to life again, leading them up the mountainside into the stands of aspen and pine before fading away entirely.

Baffled, a little breathless from their climb, Sam cast about for any sign of something supernatural. "What kind of werewolf or wendigo registers on an EMF meter, Dean?"

"None I ever heard of." Dean pursed his lips, absently tapping the shotgun barrel against his leg while he thought. "All right," he said finally. "It's a big mountain with a lot of ground to cover, so we split up. What've you got in the duffel? You carrying any silver-tips? Rock salt?"

"Dean, I'm covered, but I think it's a bad idea—"

"You got a signal on your cell?" The older Winchester fumbled in a jacket pocket, withdrawing his own phone. "I got one bar."

"Yeah, all right, uh…me, too. But Dean—"

"You've got the EMF meter, you've got weapons and ammo, you've got a freakish interest in sheep." He ticked the points off on his fingers, pointedly ignoring his brother's concern. "I'll go east, and you head west. See you at the cuckoo's nest."

"What? Dean, I don't think we should—"

Dean snorted, shaking his head. "And I'm the one who doesn't get cultural references. We stay in touch by cell, and we meet back at the car in no later than three hours."

"Dude!"

"Try not to fall into any rabbit holes, Sammy." With that, Dean shouldered the shotgun and set off, leaving an exasperated Sam speechless again.

**SNSNSN**

At the spot where Dean began following it upstream, the river was fairly wide, so the water appeared calm. Keeping low and quiet, Dean kept his eyes peeled for spoor, and he'd found plenty—mostly deer or elk, and once a raccoon track—leading to and away from the water's edge.

The loose ground was strewn with pine needles and so doubly treacherous; he'd lost his footing once and gone down hard, slicing open the palm of his left hand on a sharp rock. Although it wasn't bad, the wound had bled profusely, and it hurt like a sonofabitch. He'd held it firm against his thigh until the bleeding slowed, leaving a patch of dark red on the denim of his jeans.

He'd hunted for just over an hour, the river narrowing considerably, water rushing loudly around granite boulders, when he spotted the anomaly: a track in the mud halfway down the steep bank, too big to be a coyote or wolf, and the wrong shape entirely to be a bear or cougar. He and Sam had just spoken, maybe ten minutes ago—call his brother again? Dean decided against it, until he knew what he was looking at.

Dean side-stepped cautiously down the slope, picking his way carefully, eyes everywhere—the rocks beneath his feet, the swift current, the bank on the far side, back up to where he had started. Still, the thing was on him, bigger than man-size, upright but lupine, hurtling down the bank and barreling straight into him, faster than he could shout out or raise his weapon. Somehow he registered that it was not a werewolf, since daylight still danced on the turbulent water nearby, and it was too hairy to be a wendigo. Dean felt the ground and his right knee give way _(son of a_ bitch!) beneath the creature's weight, and the shotgun flew from his hand, clattering somewhere, as they crashed down the slope and into the frigid water. They rolled together in the rocky shallows until the bottom dropped away suddenly. The current took them as they fought each other and then the river, limbs thrashing, punching, clawing, choking. They slammed into a boulder mid-stream and were pinned there until the current tore them loose again and repeatedly tumbled them underwater and up, man and beast frantically grasping at whatever handhold might make one victorious in their battle. Dean struggled to keep the thing's jagged claws and snapping teeth at bay, tried to force its head beneath the river's surface, force its body to follow, but his strength was ebbing fast, and he was gulping water as often as air. Again they smashed into moss-slick rock, and this time it tore them apart from one another, the current snatching the creature downstream, leaving Dean momentarily pinioned against a trio of boulders. He twisted until he was able to throw both arms around the most-manageable rock and haul himself up just enough to see the—what the hell was it?--reach calmer water and labor to the far shore. There, it hauled itself out and looked back at him, letting out an eerie, challenging cry before disappearing into dense thicket.

"Son of a bitch!" he sputtered, teeth chattering, half-drowned in the icy water. He was rapidly losing the strength in his arms, and he frantically cast about for options. The near shore beckoned, maybe thirty feet to his right, but the river in that direction was chaos…. Dean stopped thinking and launched himself from the boulder, angling downstream toward the bank, clawing his way through water until he was being pulled along the sharp rocks of the shallows on his belly. Digging in with hands and toes, he scrabbled desperately for purchase, at last finding it and with his last bit of strength crawling from the river's grasp. Pain in his right knee flared brightly as he collapsed face-down in the sand and gravel, lungs heaving, coughing up water, shuddering with cold and hurt and the aftermath of the massive adrenalin rush.

"Sam," he thought, before the world went dark.


	2. Chapter 2

The wind was high in the pines as Sam trod carefully along the deer track, eyes roving. He'd hunted for three hours, finding nothing, shaking off his foul mood as he focused on the job at hand. He felt stupid using the EMF meter—it seemed incongruous on the mountain, and he finally stowed it away, using eyes and ears in its place. Wendigos aside, the possibility of a werewolf or any other evil thing that might rip a full-grown sheep apart with strength alone seemed remote in the broad daylight, and while deer and rabbits had left signs of their passing, he hadn't seen a living creature of any kind since he and Dean had split up. The mountainside seemed peaceful and empty, except for the wind.

The sun turned west, and a glance at his watch told Sam he'd better head back down to the car. If he missed their rendezvous time, Dean would tear him a new one, in the temper he'd been in. And if Sam showed up early, Dean would certainly keep him waiting, just to make sure that little brother knew which one of them was the alpha dog. Sam snorted—Dean could be such an amazing ass.

He cast another look around him, then took out his cell phone. No signal. He snapped the phone shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. To his right, something rustled, and he jerked to attention, shotgun at the ready, but it was only a bird. Brown towhee, maybe, from its size. Heaving a sigh, Sam started back down the mountain.

_It wasn't like the people at the roadhouse were family—the point was they were people. Sam could recall far too many Christmases spent on the road, just the three of them, or holed up in some cheap motel where John cleaned his guns, checked his equipment, and licked the wounds he still clearly bore following his wife's horrific death. When he opened the tequila bottle, the boys knew to steer clear, Dean quietly teaching Sam the strategies of stud poker or Texas Hold 'Em, until John's sullen, volatile mood passed._

_The Christmas Eve when Sam was eight and Dean twelve, John had suddenly thrown down the knife and whetstone he'd been handling, scrubbed his face in his hands and slammed wordlessly out of the motel room. The boys heard the car door squeak open and the engine rumble to life before the Impala pulled away, tires momentarily spinning in the loose gravel. Wide-eyed, they had looked at one another, before Dean set down his cards and walked carefully to the door, locking it shut behind their father._

"_Bedtime, Sammy," he said softly. The boys slept close that night, even after John returned several hours later, a little off-balance and smelling of alcohol. _

"_Good night, boys," he rumbled before falling into his own bed. _

"_Good night, sir," they replied in unison, and no one had ever mentioned the incident again._

"It wouldn't kill us to spend Christmas with people we know," Sam said aloud, to nobody in particular.

He felt his mood darkening again, and gave himself a mental shake. I'm not going to do it, Dean, he thought—not going to let you or me or this hunt or our _lives_ pull me down into some morose abyss like happened to Dad, and like is happening to you. Whatever this thing is killing these sheep, it can wait a couple of days. We get back to the car, and we're heading to the roadhouse, if I have to hogtie you in the back seat. And I'm going to sing "Jingle Bells" loud and off-key the whole way, until you either sing with me or one of our heads explodes. Man, it isn't too much to ask to be just a little normal—just a _little_—and spend freaking Christmas in a familiar place instead of hunting some bad thing on freaking Humpback—Brokeback--

Dammit! Sam roared his aggravation to the tall pines around him. He tossed the duffel bag at his feet and stood, arms akimbo, lips pursed, glaring at nothing. So much for shaking off the dark mood.

After a moment, he picked up the duffel, took out the EMF meter, and started down the mountain again.

**SNSNSN**

Sometime, somehow over the noise of the water's rush, Dean heard singing. A clear, high soprano washed sweetly through the air.

"_He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake—"_

Angel, Dean thought stupidly. Why would an angel sing about Santa?

_During their second Christmas in Wisconsin, Sam had procured an oversized long-sleeve red thermal shirt from Pastor Jim's dresser, which he donned and stuffed with a pillow from the bed he shared with his older brother, somehow hooking a pair of Dean's Fruit of the Loom undershorts over his ears and under his chin like a mock beard, adding a stocking cap, then making a grand entrance among visitors to the parsonage, proudly proclaiming himself to be "Sammy Claus." Again the church ladies were charmed, and Sam innocently glowed in the light of their attention. "Dean, I thought I told you," John said later, his tone icy. "Yessir," the eight-year-old had replied steadfastly. "I'm sorry."_

Dean succumbed again to the darkness.

**SNSNSN**

Sam made good time on the way back to the car, arriving a little ahead of schedule. No Dean, and still no signal on his cell. Sam stowed the shotgun in the trunk, then stood beside the car, impatiently drumming his fingers on the Impala's rooftop, chewing his lower lip, biding his time until his brother showed up.

From down the road and around a slight bend came the tinkle of bells, then bleating, as a small flock of sheep rounded the corner, driven by a stocky young man dressed for cold weather, a shepherd's crook seemingly a natural extension of his hand. There was a rifle slung over his shoulder, and that didn't seem so natural.

Suddenly the sheep were milling around Sam's legs, and he laughed with delight to see a young lamb among them.

"I thought it was too early for lambs," he called to the herder.

"Mostly, but some come ahead of schedule. That one's one of the reasons I'm moving them to a safer pasture."

"You have much trouble with predators?" Sam asked casually, long-practiced at setting people at ease with his earnest innocence.

"Been some lately." The herder was maybe a little older than Dean, and shorter than Sam by half a foot—black hair, blue eyes, and a friendly face stubbled by the day's growth. "Probably some dog pack. I haven't lost any animals, but I don't intend to. We're moving down to join another flock in the big pasture."

Sam nodded. "So you think it's dogs, then."

"Don't know what else it might be. No cougar around here for years, and the signs are wrong for bear, too. Whatever it is, it attacked a dozen or so sheep, tore them to pieces but didn't eat them. Couple of guys I know said they'd never seen anything like it, and didn't ever want to see it again." The herder indicated the rifle on his shoulder, a .30-.30 lever-action center-fire model with a walnut stock. "I'm not afraid to use this if I need to."

"Good gun," Sam commented. "Had one like it when I was twelve." He hoped suddenly that he hadn't sounded patronizing, but the herder was more surprised than offended.

"Big rifle for a twelve-year-old!"

"Yeah, big and expensive. That was kind of the point."

_It had been early November when John Winchester had finally decided it was time for his oldest son to join him on a hunt. Sixteen-year-old Dean had been pushing the issue for months, sometimes verbally, more often by making a point of bulls-eyeing everything he aimed at, whether with pistol, rifle, or bow and arrow. His proficiency and persistence had finally paid off—John and Dean had left twelve-year-old Sammy in the car one night and disappeared into the Ohio countryside, doing what, Sam never knew exactly. But when they had returned after a couple of hours, Dean was puffed with pride. He stayed on a high for weeks after._

"_What's wrong with you, Dean?" Sam had complained, because his brother had acquired a new smug cockiness that didn't sit well with the younger boy. Truth be told, Sam thought he might be a little jealous, not of Dean's success—many of the details of that night had been kept from him—but of just, well, _hunting._ Since that night, Dean had changed toward his kid brother, become a little mocking, a little condescending, leaving Sammy behind in his sudden charge toward adulthood. Hunting had suddenly become his focus, with Sam a far-distant second. Dean didn't seem to notice the change, and when Sam mentioned it, he didn't seem to care. That's what hurt Sam the most._

_In fact, the only cloud on Dean's newly bright horizon appeared to be the annoyance of having to look after Sammy. Every other door seemed to open wide for him; whatever he touched turned to gold. Every game of pool, virtually every poker hand—he won them all, walking away with fistfuls of folded bills that he laughingly flipped in Sam's face. "A hunter and a winner, Sammy boy," he gloated. "That's me!" _

_In late December, they were on the road to Nebraska, to Caleb's, needing munitions. Sam was pretty certain that it was on that trip that Dean lost his virginity, because suddenly girls were like poker hands, and Dean couldn't lose. That Christmas Eve, as on many nights, John had gone out, taking the car, leaving the boys to their own devices, stuck in another crap room in another crap motel. _

_Sam had been watching umptieth reruns of "Frosty the Snowman" and "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown" on an ancient black-and-white TV, Dean pacing, not nervous, not anxious, but obviously preparing for something._

"_You're going to be okay here, Sammy, right?" Dean had finally asked, flipping up the collar on his jacket and heading out the door. "I'm just going over to the diner to grab a burger." _

_It had been two hours before he returned, and Sam was pissed at being left behind, left out, left alone. Dean, on the other hand, was—Sam didn't know what. Smug, sated, insufferably arrogant, with a feral smile Sam had never seen before on his brother's face. _

"_I'm telling Dad!" the younger brother had snapped, with no idea of what he'd be telling._

"_Go ahead, you big baby!" Dean had challenged. _

"_You're only four years older, Dean," Sam had retorted, and to his utter humiliation, Dean had laughed at him._

"_Yeah, but I'm a _man_ now, Sammy."_

_Furious, Sam had punched his older brother in the shoulder, and Dean took him down instantly. They scrabbled on the bed, falling to the floor, the short, ugly brawl ending when Sam suddenly burst into tears. _

_Dean stopped instantly. "Sammy? You hurt?"_

_Embarrassed, Sam had wiped the wetness from his cheeks, not sure why he was crying. _

"_No," he glowered, with one last, half-hearted push at his brother's chest. "Get off me, you stupid jerk."_

_Chastened and wary, Dean had helped Sam off the floor. "Dude. Hey, I'm sorry," he said, a cursory look showing him that Sam truly wasn't injured. "Look, don't tell Dad, all right? When we get to Caleb's, I'll buy you something—whatever you want—knife, bow, whatever, okay? Hell, it's Christmas—it'll be my present to you."_

"_Yeah, sure." Sam had nursed his bottom lip, fixing a betrayed glare on Dean's apprehensive face. "Merry freaking Christmas."_

_When they got to Caleb's on Christmas Day, Sam had held Dean to his promise, carefully, coldly selecting the most expensive rifle the arms-dealer had in stock. It had taken almost all of Dean's money to buy, pissing the older boy off no end, and Sam thought the retribution was worth every penny._

"Anyway, it's a good gun," Sam said again, and the herder nodded.

"Glad to hear. I don't believe in killing, but I intend to protect my flock, if I need to. See you around."

He prodded a couple of the nearest sheep with his crook, setting them and the rest of the flock in motion, and they headed down the road.

"Luck!" Sam called, the herder acknowledging him with a wave of the hand, a fairy-dance of leaves skittering at his heels.

**SNSNSN**

The voice rose again, the song floating clearly over the noise of the racing water.

"_Adeste, fideles, laeti triumphantes; venite, venite in Bethlehem. Natum videte Regem angelorum. Venite adoremus, venite adoremus, Venite adoremus, Dominum."_

Angel, Dean thought again, although he didn't remember doing so the first time. He stirred, instantly regretting it, pain exploding in his injured knee. A tortured cry escaped him, and the singing stopped abruptly. Dean growled deep in his throat, biting back another cry, trying to suppress the sign of weakness, his battered, torn body in agony. He still lay face down on the riverbank, and struggled to roll to one side when he thought he heard _(something)_ approaching across the rough gravel. He slapped at his jacket as he moved, searching frantically for a weapon and finding none, igniting the burning wounds on his chest where savage claws had flayed him and where the river had scraped him along its jagged shallows. Bursts of red pain clouded his vision, and he felt more than saw _(something)_ sink to its knees beside him. Dean blinked savagely to clear his eyes, striking out blindly, but gentle mittened hands caught his wrists easily and he froze as his vision cleared.

Kneeling beside him, haloed by the rapidly setting sun behind her, was a young woman maybe his age, pretty in a plain way, delicate face framed by the dark hair which escaped from her Mackinac cap. There was a wrinkle of worry between her brows as she surveyed him, taking in the dark bruises and lacerations on his face. There was something different about her, Dean thought, something not quite….

"Who're you?" He struggled again to sit upright, every movement eliciting some new pain, and he groaned again loudly, falling back on the rocky ground, booted feet still washed in the river's shallows, teeth chattering violently now in the ever-cooling air.

"Easy, easy," she shushed him. "My God, what happened to you? No—never mind. We've got to get some help. You're going to freeze out here."

"Cell's in my left back pocket," he managed, and she leaned over him, struggling to remove the phone from his sodden jeans. Even through the pain and cold, Dean could savor the idea of a woman's hands on his ass, and then her belly bumped against him and he realized what had seemed off about her. Not off, and almost completely hidden by her bulky winter coat. She was very, very pregnant.

With a grunt she freed the cell phone from his jeans, and they looked at each other silently as she held the mangled instrument in front of him.

"Cabin's not far," she told him. "Can you walk?"

"Give me a minute." Dean clenched his teeth, gathering physical and mental strength for the mere task of standing, assessing the odds of getting to his feet without pitching over on his face again. He didn't think his knee would hold, and he shifted as gingerly as possible to the left. "Come on this side and brace yourself," he told her. "Will you be able to—" A tilt of his head indicated her swollen belly, and she acknowledged it with a laugh.

"I'm only eight months, and even the snow is holding off this year. I'll be fine." She settled into position, leaning slightly over him and grasping his hand and arm just above the elbow. "Ready?"

Dean steeled himself for the effort. "On three. One, two, three!"

There was nothing graceful about what they accomplished—in fact, they both nearly ended up in the river—but finally Dean was off the ground and _(standing)_, both of them gasping, he balancing precariously on his left leg and leaning heavily against her tiny frame, she already ponderous with the extra weight she carried before her.

The instant Dean's right leg touched the ground, pain stabbed through his knee.

"Son of a _bitch_!" he cried as every other agony disappeared in this one's blinding glare.

The woman slipped under his right arm, huddling close to him, careful not to touch the leg, then looking up into his pain-wracked face. Only the fact that he was hunched over in anguish enabled her to support him on her shoulders.

"Suck it up, cowboy. One step at a time," she said. "We can do this."

Miraculously, somehow they did.

**SNSNSN**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer**: Don't own "Supernatural," and the painting has been quiet lately…._

_**A/N**: "Chapter 2" went live before I even knew what was happening (sorry), so I didn't have a chance to write my thanks for the reviews, and to ask if you thought there were too many flashbacks in the second part--not enough action? I hope you enjoyed it anyway, and that you'll enjoy this part, too. Probably only two more to go after this one. I also hope to get this "posting" business figured out soon!_

**SNSNSN**

Sam tossed his father's journal into the duffel bag on the back seat of the car and checked his watch again. It was way past their rendezvous time, and there was still no sign of Dean, no signal on the cell so he'd know if Dean had tried to call.

Sam had spent the last half hour scouring the journal for any kind of anything that might tell them what was killing the sheep, but the closest item he'd found was a little scribble about the monster Grendel from _Beowulf_. Creatures from early Anglo-Saxon epic poetry were unlikely to be roaming the Colorado backcountry, Sam was pretty sure.

Might be some sort of chupacabra, of course, and John Winchester had collected plenty of information about goat-suckers. Problem with this thing being a chupacabra was right there in its name—a chupacabra sucked goat's blood. Sheep. Goats. Close, but nothing in the recent news stories had indicated that any blood-sucking was going on.

Sam sighed. Elmendorf beast? That might be something to look into.

He checked his watch and cell phone for the zillionth time, then slapped cold hands against cold thighs and looked up and down the roadway, wanting badly to see his brother walking there, coming back to him. Trees threw long, swaying shadows across the asphalt as the sun fell and the wind picked up, sending winter-deadened pine straw to the ground like tiny lances. There was nothing else—no traffic, no sheep, no Grendel, no Dean.

"Come on, man," Sam murmured, growing colder inside, now, too. Worry did that to him, turned his insides to ice, and there were few things—okay, nothing—that worried him like Dean did. He debated climbing back up the mountain, following after his brother; or taking the car and heading for civilization and, he hoped, cell phone reception. Even if he got a signal, though, that was no guarantee Dean had one.

It was a single gunshot that made his decision for him—from down the mountain, from a .30-.30 center-fire. Sam threw himself behind the wheel of the Impala, started her up, heard two more shots and hit the accelerator. A mile and a half down the road, he passed a broad pasture where thirty, maybe forty sheep huddled in a nervous bunch; a few hundred yards further and there was the herder again, trudging back up the roadside toward his flock, rifle in his hand now and a storm on his face. There was another herder with him, older, also armed, also grim.

Sam pulled the Impala to a halt on the gravel shoulder, jumping out as fast as he could untangle feet and long legs from the pedals and steering column.

"What was it?" he asked. "That was you I heard firing, right?"

The older herder scowled. "Don't know what it was. Too big to be a coyote or a wolf—bear, maybe. We didn't get a good look, and we didn't get a good shot. Made this kind of chuffing noise, and the sheep went crazy. I think maybe it got one of them."

They quickly discovered that it was true—they found the torn carcass of a pregnant ewe strewn in three pieces across the pasture where grass touched tree-line. Four pieces.

"My God," Sam breathed, gaping at the maimed animal, keeping his eyes off the almost full-term lamb ripped from her and lying in a bloody heap nearby. "What could do something like that?" He looked at the two men with him, and saw they had no answers. The ice in his stomach churned, and he looked across the road, up the mountain into the encroaching darkness.

"Dean," he whispered.

In the back seat of the Impala, in the duffel bag beside John Winchester's journal, the EMF meter stirred to life.

**SNSNSN**

"Not far" to the cabin turned out to be a little over a mile, and every step was excruciating. It took Dean and the woman—Ginny, she told him sometime, and he'd told her his real name in return, pain howling banshee-like, too loud in every part of him for him to make anything up, really—it took them nearly three hours to make the arduous trek.

She had prattled at him for the first hour or so, and he thought during those moments he _could_ think that she was trying to keep them both occupied, their minds off the difficulty of their journey. Built the cabin a few years ago, Dean thought she said. Used it when she needed to get away, to get back to simpler things. Hiked in from the road; had a friend who checked in on her while she was there, same guy who helped her build the cabin. He'd probably be by that night, or the next morning, and he would help them. He was a good man. It was a good cabin. It was a good life….

Dean tried hard to concentrate _(just put one foot in front of the other, now the other, now the other)_ but there was simply too much to focus on. Don't scream. Don't put any weight on the right leg. Worry about Sam. Don't lean on Ginny too hard. Don't stumble. Don't pass out. Worry about Sam. Watch out for that evil thing, whatever the hell it is. Worry about Sam. Worry about Sa--ultimately, all that registered in his brain was pain.

By the time they reached Ginny's little one-room cabin, both were pale and exhausted, sweaty and chilled, neither having any clear idea of exactly how they'd gotten there. There was already a fire laid on the hearth and another one in the stove, and Ginny maneuvered Dean into a seated position on her bed before lighting them. There was no electricity, but the propane lantern she also lit proved ample in the small space.

"Take your clothes off," she ordered, pulling a nearly full whiskey bottle and glass from a little cupboard by the stove. Dean's fingers were too numb and his brain too fogged to comply. She quickly poured the whiskey and held the glass to his chattering teeth, helping him drink it down. Then she went to work on his clothes, stripping off his jacket, shirts and T-shirt first, wrapping him in the coverlet from her bed. The left boot and sock came off easily, but she worked more carefully with the right ones, not wanting to jar the bad knee.

Ginny pushed him gently back onto the pillows, easing both legs up onto the bed together. Dean was shivering less violently with the whiskey in him, but now she'd seen the terrible wounds on his arms and chest—deep gouges in puckered bluish skin, scrapes, tears, was that a bite mark?—and she knew his knee required more medical attention than she could provide. He hadn't been coherent in some time.

Gingerly she removed his still-sodden jeans and boxers, eyes averted as best she could, less worried about his dignity than about the state of his knee and the need to get the wet things off him, get him into something warm. Hypothermia, shock, blood loss—any one of them could kill him, that much she knew.

Piling covers around and atop him, Ginny fiercely rubbed his arms and left leg, stimulating circulation there. There was an extra ski cap on a peg by the door—cartoon-like blue reindeer cavorting on a red and yellow field, a present from the man who'd helped her build the cabin. She snatched it and pulled it down over Dean's damp hair, well over his ears, and the result would have elicited a grin under other circumstances. She heaped more blankets from the cedar chest on top of him, then grabbed up a large pot and headed to the pump outside.

The shadows were long, not much light remaining in the day. From somewhere far to the south she heard what sounded like rifle-fire. Blam! Blam blam! Hunters, she thought fleetingly. She filled the pot and hurried back inside, setting it on the stove to heat while she located her woefully inadequate first-aid kit. The cabin was warming nicely, at least.

Dean regained consciousness, groaning loudly when she applied the hot compresses to the worst of the lacerations on his chest. Then he soldiered up—it cost him dearly to keep silent as she went to work with the antiseptic and bandages, but he didn't flinch once, gritting his teeth and concentrating fiercely on a point in the air above their heads. When she dabbed cautiously at the torn flesh of his shoulder, where the beast's teeth had sunk deeply _(rabies? worse? he pushed that one clear thought quickly from his head)_, Dean took the wash-cloth from her and soaked it with whiskey, then swiped at the bite himself,taking another healthy swig directly from the bottle and handing the cloth back to her wordlessly. Everything hurt like a sonofabitch, but he was warmer, now, and the whiskey was working to dull the pain. There was something soothing, too, about her gentle ministrations, her composed expression. The fire in the hearth against the far wall created a glow around her as she sat beside him, tending his wounds, and Dean sank back against the pillows, watching her face while she worked.

It wasn't until Ginny pulled the covers up over his bandaged chest and shoulder, shifting to examine his right knee, that Dean realized he was naked beneath the mound of blankets.

"Um," he stopped her with a weak hand on her elbow, suddenly shy in a way he couldn't remember _ever_ being. He cocked his head and grinned uncomfortably. "Awkward."

"I'm just going to take a look at your leg," she said, smiling benignly. "Believe me, Dean, you don't have anything I haven't seen before."

"Won't your husband--?" He was really too tired to finish the sentence, and she cut him off, anyway.

"No husband. Now keep still and let me look."

"I'm sorry. I thought that, you know, with the baby…."

"No husband. End of story." Ginny's tone was firm, but she used gentle fingers to probe his inflamed knee. "Do you think anything's broken in there? You need a doctor, but if Joe doesn't come by tonight, it'll be tomorrow morning before we can get one."

Dean grimaced. "I think it's twisted, is all. I torqued it when that—" He fell silent, and she looked back at him curiously.

"What exactly happened to you, Dean? That looks like a bite mark on your shoulder, and these—are these claws? There aren't any bears around here, and no cougars for ten years, at least. I think you've got torn ligaments in your knee, and something apparently tried to drown you. What in God's name happened?"

There was really no point in making up a cover story—in the face of Ginny's gravity, somehow truth seemed to be the most appropriate reply.

"I think it was the thing killing the sheep around here." He would have shrugged, but everything hurt too much. "It, uh, it jumped me."

"Holy God. What was it?"

"I never really got a good look," he replied, and that was also the truth. "My brother and I—"

Dean sat bolt upright, pain reawakening with a shriek along every nerve. "Sam! What time is it? I've got to—" He started to swing out of bed, but Ginny held him down, her hands on his shoulders.

"Whoa, now—slow down! You can't walk on that leg. Besides, your clothes are still sopping."

He wanted to fight her, struggled to find the energy. Sam was out there, with that thing, somewhere. Somewhere Dean wasn't. Needed to find Sam, make sure he….

Dean collapsed back onto the bed, spent, breathing hard. Even thinking hurt, but he did it anyway, had to figure out a way he could warn Sam….

"A phone—is there a phone?" he heard himself say.

"There's never any cell reception up here, and I didn't have a land-line run."

"A rifle, then, any firearm? He might hear the gunshot."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, no. I don't believe in owning guns."

"You don't—" Dean opened his eyes long enough to look at her in disbelief, his gaze traveling to her distended belly. "And if you need help?" he asked.

Ginny smiled down at him. "I do believe in angels," she said simply, shrugging. Dean sank down into the pillows, bloodied and beaten.

**SNSNSN**

"My brother's up on that mountain," Sam said, voice tight with concern. "Maybe lost, maybe hurt. I've gotta find him."

The young herder gripped his arm, holding him back. "It's going to be full dark in half an hour. Go up after him now and _you_ could be lost, maybe hurt. Wait until daylight."

"Joe's right," the older man said. "Even with a flashlight, you could step into a windfall, stumble over rock, bust your leg or your head in a second and we wouldn't find _you_ until daylight."

Sam bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet, thinking furiously. "Is there someone in Stoner's Well that could help? Sheriff? Forest ranger, maybe?"

Joe shook his head. "We're pretty isolated, and even the mountain rescue boys know better than to look for lost people in the dark. They'd wait until the sun was up, so they'd have a better chance of spotting your brother."

"It's getting so cold," Sam said, "and that damn thing that killed the sheep—" He trailed off, eyes still roving the mountainside, although dusk had fallen so quickly there was little he could see. "Look, Dean can sure tell which way is downhill, and sooner or later, downhill is going to come to road, right? He's going to find a road, right? This road?"

The herders exchanged a look before the older one turned away, moving toward the campfire they had built before the sun set, after they'd buried the carcass parts. The feds would want proof, if it was wolf-kill.

"I know you're worried," Joe said sympathetically. "There's really nothing more you can do until morning. Come on, Mel's got some dinner going—come on."

He plucked at Sam's sleeve, distracting him, turning him away from the mountainside. "What's your name?"

"Sam." The response was soft. "My brother's Dean."

"Well, Sam, I'm Joe. It's nice to meet you." The herder guided Sam toward the campfire. "Listen, does Dean know anything about wilderness camping? He a smart guy?"

Sam snorted a laugh, the sound an odd mix of pride and panic. "My brother knows a little bit about a lot of things, and yeah, he's pretty damn smart."

Joe nodded. "That's good. Means he's going to find a way to stay as warm as possible, and as safe as possible. Snow's held off this year, so the ground is dry. You said he was hunting, so he's got, what, a deer rifle with him? You gotta have faith, man—Dean's going to be all right. With any luck, he'll come across some hunter's shack or deer blind, stay there for the night. If he's real lucky, he'll find Virginia."

Sam's mind raced as he imagined a hundred possibilities that would bring Dean back safe, and a thousand that ended with him dead. With an effort, he pulled himself back into the moment, looking up at Joe with curiosity. "Virginia?"

"She's got a cabin sort of in the direction you said your brother headed. I was going to drop by tonight, check in on her, until this thing with the sheep. Guess I'll head up in the morning."

Mel sniggered from across the fire, where he was ladling a steaming something onto tin plates.

"You got something to say?" Joe asked sharply, swinging toward him.

"Not me," Mel replied, head down, avoiding the younger man's glare. "It's plain as day how you feel about her."

"I'm _marrying_ her."

"And I've got no problem with that," Mel said noncommittally. "Just can't understand why _you_ don't have a problem with it, seeing as how she's carrying another man's child."

Sam watched Joe's hands clench. "Hey, hey," he said softly, paying back the empathy the herder had shown him. "That's great—you're engaged."

Joe hesitated, then sat down on a camp-stool, indicating Sam should do the same. "Not exactly. She hasn't said yes, yet. In fact, I—I was going to ask her tonight."

Sam nodded, eyes on the campfire. "I get it. Christmas Eve—great time to pop the question."

Mel approached with heaping plates of stew and biscuits, handing them over to Joe and Sam before returning to the kettle on the fire and eating his own meal directly from it, there being no more plates. The food smelled great, and for just a moment Sam allowed himself to savor the aroma, to forget about where Dean might be or what might have happened to him. Then everything just smelled like carrion, and he thought he might vomit. Again, he jerked himself back to the present.

"I mean, hey, Christmas is good, too. Maybe even better."

"You married, Sam?"

Sam frowned, dropping his head, shaggy hair hiding the sorrow in his eyes. It had been so long since Jessica—would it ever be long enough to forget?

_His first Christmas with her had also been his last, and it grieved Sam terribly to think he might never know that warm sense of _belonging_ ever again. Jessica had taken him home for the holiday with her, back to the house she grew up in, to be with her parents, brothers, sisters, and their growing families. As soon as he walked into the big, two-story Victorian, Sam had felt like he belonged. The fire blazed brightly on the hearth, a giant spruce stood proud under the weight of uncountable ornaments, and garlands hung in every window. Jess's mom had welcomed him like a long-lost son, hugging him tight and brushing the hair out of his eyes, wrapping him in one of her husband's old sweaters with the too-short sleeves, threatening to stuff him like a Christmas turkey if he didn't put some meat on his bones during their visit. Jess's dad had put him to work chopping wood for the fire, feeding the dogs, hanging one last ornament in that empty spot near the top of the tree. Each time the kitchen door opened, some new, mouth-watering smell had emerged, along with one of Jess's siblings or their spouses bearing an extra glass of mulled cider or a frosted sugar cookie, just for Sam. Children ran everywhere like wild things, miraculously accident-free, and at one point Sam found himself learning to change a diaper while listening to Jess's fifth youngest niece read aloud from "A Christmas Carol," accompanied by her cousin on the harmonica and bongo drums. It was pandemonium, and it was perfect. Sam couldn't stop grinning._

_And Jess—well, Jess had just been flawless. She'd caught him watching her after she'd prepared the potato soufflé, set the table, read the twins a Christmas story, lit candles in the living room, sung "The Holly and the Ivy" with her two oldest sisters in harmony, and expertly added bows to every present beneath the tree that needed one. "Too Martha Stewart?" she inquired, twinkling up at him, and he'd pulled her into his arms to kiss her, not even anywhere near the mistletoe. "Just right," he told her, for the first time considering the possibility of spending the rest of his life with her. Beautiful, flawless Jessica. _

"No," Sam said quietly, dropping the biscuit into the stew uneaten. "No, I'm not married."

Far away, something cried into the night.

**SNSNSN**


	4. Chapter 4

**_Disclaimer_**: _I don't own "Supernatural." Honestly, can you even imagine anyone owning Dean? But a lot of Sam's charm is that _every_one can own _him

_**A/N**: Thank you for continuing to read—I really appreciate that, and would appreciate your comments, too. This story's just about done…probably just one more part after this, and then I can get back to reading all the great stuff _you_ published here!_

**SNSNSN**

Ginny tore apart a flannel sheet, using wide strips of it to bind Dean's knee as tightly as he could bear it. His flesh was swollen and hot to the touch, and though he tried once to put weight on the knee, it would not bear him.

She also pulled out a small cardboard box, offering him the men's clothing it contained. Thermal long-johns, a turquoise-blue flannel shirt, an old pair of khaki work-pants, red woolen socks. Nothing matched.

"They've been washed," she said, when he looked at them dubiously.

Dean cocked a quizzical eyebrow at her. "Yours?" he asked. He'd meant the question to be facetious, but he thought she might have blushed.

"They're Joe's. I told you—he helped me build the cabin. Sometimes he needs a change of clothes."

Whoever he was, this Joe wasn't as tall as Dean, but he was definitely heavier, so the fit was short but loose. It was awkward and exhausting getting into the johnnies and pants, but both fit easily over his bandaged knee, and Dean was relieved to be dressed again.

"So Joe just happens to keep some of his extra clothes here," he prompted lightly, once he'd caught his breath and sagged back into bed, blankets wrapped around and over him until he could barely move, which was definitely a good thing. It seemed very likely that his shoulder had started bleeding again.

"He's not the baby's father," Ginny told him, and Dean there was a note of regret in her voice. "Anyway, it's not what you think, and he's none of your business."

He let the matter drop, not really caring about her personal life, just desperate for distraction from the pain, and from his growing worry about Sam. There wasn't much he could do about either one, not until he could put some weight on his injured knee. But, God, where was Sammy, and was he all right?

_Man, Sam, you are such a pain in my ass!_

They found some aspirin in the first-aid kit, and Dean swallowed a fistful with another slug of whiskey. He lost the battle over who should have the bed—there had suddenly been three of her insisting that he be the one to use it, and she'd seen the befuddlement on his face. Head muzzy with fatigue and drink, buried in blankets, he lapsed into a restless sleep, Ginny watching over him from a chair by the fire.

_By their third holiday season with Pastor Jim, the young Winchesters had both seen some things no child ever should. That year, several days before Christmas, Sam had taken his older brother's hand and solemnly led him out of the parsonage to a spot where they could see the cemetery that adjoined the church property. Because the town was smallish, so was the cemetery, and while many of the gravestones were old and worn, several new ones stood in stark contrast to their surroundings. "That's where they keep the dead people," Sammy had informed Dean pensively, a troubled expression on his face, sober with the weight of his discovery. _

_On Christmas Eve, Sammy scanned the skies with a happy expectancy, eyes peeled for St. Nick and his sleigh full of toys. Later that night, however, long after Pastor Jim had performed the evening's special service and the last parishioners had wished them all a very merry Christmas, Dean had awakened to find Sammy shaking him frantically, tears of panic streaming down the smaller child's face. "Dean, what if something bad gets Baby Jesus?" he had wailed, and there'd been only one way to calm him. Pastor Jim found the brothers the next morning in the church chancel, huddled together for warmth beside the manger in the Nativity scene, a sawed-off shotgun Jim didn't know they had clutched in Dean's small hands. _

_That was the brothers' last Christmas in the pastor's care, although he remained a fixture in their lives for years to come. The next December, the Winchesters were on the road, driving cross-country, John single-minded behind the wheel of their old Chevy, seemingly possessed in his hurry to get somewhere Dean didn't, couldn't remember. The ten-year-old knew it was Christmas-time only when he spied the colored lights on the far-flung houses they passed during cold, silent nights, and six-year-old Sammy innocently slept through it all, snuggled against his big brother's side._

Dean woke with Ginny's hand on his arm, her voice soft and scared in his ear. "Dean, there's something outside."

He struggled up from sleep, reaching automatically for his gun, disconcerted not to find it, aware again of pain flaring everywhere. "What's going on? What time is it?"

"Almost midnight. I heard something moving around, something big, and there was, I don't know, a _sniffing_ noise, but I couldn't see anything. There's no moon."

Suddenly an eerie cry sounded from just outside the cabin, wavering and unearthly, and Dean felt the hairs on his arms rise.

"Son of a bitch! Lock the door!" He flung back the covers and hoisted himself from the bed, moving as rapidly as possible on one good leg to shutter both sets of windows _(big gray shape, stooped at the shoulders, what kind of werewolf doesn't need a full moon?) _while Ginny followed his command and set the deadbolt.

"Dean!" she cried, thoroughly frightened. "What is it?"

"The thing that attacked me, the thing that's been killing the sheep! We need weapons…." He remembered something suddenly, and snapped his fingers. "Ginny, do you have salt? Anything silver, or iron?"

She looked at him as though he were mad, both hands held protectively on her belly, then crossed the tiny space to the stove and handed him a frying pan.

"Cast iron," she said, and he thought she was trying hard to sound calm.

Ignoring the agony tearing at his knee, Dean moved beside her, tucking the frying pan under one arm, frantically searching her tiny stock of provisions for salt or anything else he might use against the creature outside. Paprika, nutmeg, curry powder, _(what the hell?)_ dried onion flakes--no salt. He grabbed a small butcher knife just as something heavy thumped against the door outside.

Ginny let out a shriek, and Dean hastily grabbed the fireside chair, tossing knife and pan into the seat so he could shove it against the door for added security, pain searing him everywhere, punishing him for moving. Spying the poker, he snatched it up, grabbed the knife with the same hand, took the frying pan in the other and turned to give it back to Ginny. Dean stopped short when he saw her.

She stood frozen beside the stove, eyes round in her pale face, lips quivering.

"What is it?" he demanded. "Ginny, what's wrong?"

He followed her shocked gaze to the floor at her feet, where liquid puddled around her.

"I think," she said, her voice hoarse, "that my water just broke."

Dean blinked once, a ghost of a laugh escaping him. "Come again?" he asked politely.

**SNSNSN**

For an hour Sam drove up and down the road, the same two-mile stretch over and over, using the turnout where they had originally parked the Impala as centerpoint, hoping to spot Dean, hoping Dean would spot him. When the gas gauge neared empty, he parked in the turnout and walked the route he'd been driving, carrying the EMF meter, a flashlight and his shotgun. Twice, three times he walked the road, but there was nothing.

"Dean!" His voice was lost immediately in the trees, but he called again anyway. "Dean!" God, he _was_ Bo-Peep, Sam thought a little crazily, and Dean was his lost sheep. The idea brought the hint of a cheerless smile to his lips, helping to ground him.

You're overreacting, Sam, he told himself. Calm down and think about this rationally. It's dark, but Dean moves better in the dark than just about anyone you know. It's cold, but there's plenty of dry tinder and he's got a lighter if he wants to start a fire. He's armed, so what's going to get him? There are no bears, no mountain lions—you saw plenty of evidence of deer and rabbits for wolves to prey on. This sheep-killing thing—seriously, man, how hard is it to kill sheep? If it's some sort of chupacabra or Elmendorf beast…well, they're nasty, but small. Dean? Hell, he could take out a pack of those nasties in his sleep. Dean is Dean. He's going to be fine.

Six times Sam walked past the remains of the dead opossum, roadkill from the morning or night before, its blood dark on the asphalt even under the flashlight's beam. Frowning, he waved the EMF meter over it, as he had half a day earlier. Again, not a peep. Maybe the signal this morning had been a fluke, and there really was nothing supernatural on the mountain.

Sam took a deep breath. Okay. Better. Rational is good.

Images of the slaughtered sheep and its tiny fetus flashed before him, and Sam felt all the worry and fear rise up in him like a tidal wave, spilling from his mouth, out of his control.

"Dean!" he cried. "Dean! Dean!"

Of course there was no response. Nothing to hear but the wind in the trees, the panic in his voice, and the blood pounding in his ears. Nothing to see but the stars overhead, his trembling hands, and the blood on the pavement. Everything else was a big, black nothing.

Finally, his throat raw, his stomach in knots, Sam grabbed the duffel bag out of the Impala's back seat and hiked back down to the pasture where Joe and Mel had their flocks, leaving the Impala for Dean to find when he returned. _When_ he returned.

It was Joe's watch, and Sam sat with him on one side of the campfire while Mel snored lustily on the other, wrapped tight in his sleeping bag. Sam had his shotgun across his knees, and Joe took note, resting his own rifle in the same position.

The sheep slept quietly, legs folded beneath them, night sky overhead. Where the trees allowed, Sam watched the stars wheel, found Orion, where Betelgeuse and Rigel twinkled brightly.

Joe looked up, too. "All those stars," he said, and Sam thought that the herder wasn't the type to stay quiet, not when there was company. "Which ones you looking at?"

"The Great Hunter, Orion," Sam murmured, indicating. "See that blue one right there? That's Rigel, the heel of his foot. Orion boasted that he could kill all the animals on earth, and the earth goddess believed him. So, she sent a giant scorpion to kill him. The scorpion stung Orion on the heel, and he died."

"Huh." Joe chewed on his lip for a moment. "You know, the ancient Sumerians saw something completely different in that constellation."

"Yeah? What?"

"A sheep."

Sam shot him a look, saw that the herder was completely serious, and laughed.

Joe smiled back. "I wonder what the ancient Sumerians would've thought of _that_ one," he said, using his chin to indicate the sky again.

"What do you—" Sam spotted the satellite just before it disappeared behind the trees on the mountain. He hastily pulled out his cell phone, knowing that there was no way that satellite was going to give him reception. Seriously, how crazy would that be? But any port in a storm, man. He was checking the phone anyway.

Sam laughed again in surprise. For whatever reason, he had a signal.

Heart in his throat, he made the motions, but the call went straight through to voice-mail. Even so, just hearing Dean's voice made things easier. And harder. Dammit, Dean.

"_You got Dean. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you when I can."_

"Hey, man, it's me," Sam said softly. "Where are you? I guess you're out of range, or your phone's off. I've been looking for you. Call me. Please."

He closed the phone and sat quietly for a few moments, feeling old and tired, thinking about not thinking, then put the cell away and drew out the EMF meter, turning it over in his hands, examining it in the light of the campfire. Dean had jury-rigged it from some old Walkman, and the first time Sam had seen it, he'd scoffed. Damn thing worked, though--had swung to life, squealing, a hundred times since that first one, whenever a spirit _(some evil sonofabitch, Dean's voice said in his head)_ was nearby. Not such bad craftsmanship after all.

"That one of those personal music player things?" Joe asked, and Sam smiled.

"Yeah, something like that," he said. "It, uh…yeah."

After a while, Joe tried again. "This isn't hard country, Sam. Really, your brother's going to be all right."

Done talking about it, Sam chewed a ragged nail on his left hand instead. "So, you buried that sheep until the feds could get here to see it?"

"They've got to know about any trouble they're causing with their wolf program. And what else are we supposed to do with the carcass?"

"I don't know. I guess I thought maybe you could salvage the wool, or the meat. Both."

Joe nodded. "It's hard to lose an animal like that, Sam. Expensive. But I'm okay with burying it until I can report it to the government boys. Couldn't leave it out in the open—too many predators."

"Yeah," Sam said, frowning thoughtfully. "Predators. Drawn to the smell of the meat."

"Blood," Joe corrected him. "They're drawn to the smell of the blood."

"Huh."

There was another long silence until Joe broke it. "Where you from, Sam?"

"Kansas, originally, but we moved around a lot. You?"

"I'm from Wyoming. Moved to Colorado about seven, eight years ago, invested in my own sheep." Joe stretched a kink out of his neck, wriggled his shoulders, grabbed at his rifle when it nearly slid off his lap. "We summer up north, mostly, in the high mountains, then come down here for the winter. Used to keep on going, on into New Mexico, but then I met Virginia."

His voice trailed off, and Sam smiled. "So she's the local one."

"Kind of. I met her in Stoner's Well, anyway. She was looking to build a cabin up here—somewhere she could get away, she said—and I was looking for some extra income. Always been good with my hands. Anyway, I helped her build her place."

"Guess I'd be considered a chauvinist if I said it seems a bit remote for a single woman up here."

Joe chuckled. "I said this country's not hard, but Virginia—well, let's just say she likes to have things her way, likes to be in control. If she was older, she'd be what they used to call a tough broad. There's a little picnic area for tourists another couple of miles down the mountain—even eight months pregnant, she leaves her little hybrid car there and hikes three miles in to the cabin. I offered to get her a four-wheel drive, but she refused. Said it would make things too complicated."

"As if the baby didn't complicate things enough," Sam offered gently.

Joe breathed in deeply through his nose. "You got that right. I thought I'd go crazy when she told me she was pregnant. We hadn't….I hadn't known she was seeing anybody. Hadn't made my interest clear enough, I guess. Anyway, I tried to make her tell me who the father was, was he going to do right by her? She just said it didn't matter. That he was gone and wasn't coming back, and the baby was hers. After a while, that's how I saw it, too."

"And now you're ready to marry her," Sam finished for him.

The herder reached out to toss another pine branch on the fire, nodding. "If she'll have me. When I--"

The cry seemed louder this time, although Sam was sure that it floated far down from the mountain. It was plaintive and menacing at once, sending a shiver down his spine as Joe stood up suddenly beside him. The sheep bolted to their feet all at once, an edgy, bleating wave, and Mel snorted to wakefulness.

"Wolf?" Sam asked, but Joe shook his head.

"Not like I ever heard. Not a coyote, either."

The cry came again, and this time there was nothing mournful about it—it was hostile, malicious. Sam thought there was also something triumphant in the sound, as though the thing making it had found what it was looking for.

"I think that's up by the cabin," Joe breathed before panic took him and he began running, across the road and into the forest before the creature's call had even died away.

"Mel, stay with the sheep!" Sam grabbed the duffel bag and followed Joe up the mountainside, into the utter darkness beneath the trees.

**SNSNSN**

"You're joking, right?" For a moment, the creature outside the cabin was forgotten as Dean gaped at Ginny. "You're in labor?"

"I think so." She gave him a nervous little smile. "I might actually have been having contractions since we got here, but I thought I was just tired and sore from, you know—everything." Ginny waved a hand aimlessly, grappling with comprehension and then catching a firm grip. "The book says that walking and standing shorten the first stage."

"Then sit down!" Dean took her by the shoulders and gently but firmly steered her to the bed, gritting his teeth hard when the injured knee shrieked in protest, compelling her to sit beside the tangle of blankets where he had slept and pulling them around her.

"This is _so_ not happening!" he groaned, flustered, and her smile this time was genuine.

"Oh, I think it is," she said, the joy in her voice reminding Dean again of what an angel must sound like when it sings. "It's all right, Dean. I know what to do—there's nothing more natural than this."

She winced suddenly, clutching her hands to her belly and drawing in a deep breath, just as the thing outside thudded heavily against the cabin. It made a hideous snuffling noise along the door, and something hard and sharp scratched down the wood slowly, as if measuring the effort it would take to get inside.

"Nothing natural about _that_," Dean growled, hoisting the poker in his right hand, torn between distractions of woman and beast. "All right, so we've got, what, eighteen, maybe twenty hours before the baby comes?"

Ginny looked up at him in astonishment. "Where did you get that idea?"

It took him a moment. "'The View'," he finally muttered, glaring when she put her hands over her mouth in surprise, then full-on giggled at him. "Women are always talking about how long they were in labor!" he said defensively.

Outside, the thing howled long against the door, its cry foreboding and desolate, and the temperature in the cabin seemed to drop sharply. Levity vanished.

"Will it get in?" Ginny asked quietly, and Dean shook his head.

"Not if I can help it."

She nodded, closed her eyes and inhaled again deeply, her face and body relaxing, becoming tranquil as she breathed.

"I trust you," she said simply.

There was a moment of nothing, of silence, of vacuum, and then Dean watched as Ginny breathed in deeply once again, her eyes still closed, lashes dark against pale cheeks. "I had a friend once who delivered her first-born in an hour and a half," she said, then randomly, "Childbirth is naturally stressful, but not for me; it's all just fine for me."

Her voice was melodic, and Dean realized she was talking more to herself than to him as she lay back in the bed, drawing her feet up after her, gently rubbing her belly. "I am calm. I am peaceful. I have no fear, and I am in control of all my emotions."

Ginny sighed, took another long breath, then opened her eyes and smiled gently up at him. And then her face just _(contracted, he thought with incredulity)_ and she burst into sudden tears.

"Oh, Dean!" she sobbed, overcome by unanticipated distress, reaching out to him in sorrow and consolation. "You're bleeding again!"

Nonplussed, Dean looked down to see bright red patches blossoming through the turquoise fabric of his borrowed shirt.

"It's all right," he assured her, drawn to her, wanting to take her into the circle of his arms to comfort her _(comfort him)_, knowing the pain it would cause _(so many kinds of pain, Dean)—_Dean stopped, hands clenched at his sides, steeling himself.

"It's all right," he said again, and it was an effort to keep his voice steady as she cried. "Don't be upset, Ginny. It's just a little blood."

There was an odd chuffing noise at the door, and then the thing outside howled again. This time the sound was full-throated, aggressive and exultant. Something heavy was hurled _(threw itself) _against the door, once, then a second time, and the wood of the frame cracked ominously.

Dean and Ginny looked at each other, certainty passing between them silently. The creature was coming for them, and would not be denied.

**SNSNSN**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Disclaimer_**: _I don't own anything "Supernatural."_

**_A/N_**: _Thanks again for reading this far, and thanks again _**so**_ much to those of you who have taken the time to review—I've really appreciated your support, more than I ever even imagined! What a lifeline you are to the creative process! I'm very, very grateful._

_I had thought this would be the last, long part (and it is kind of long!), but as it turns out, Sam and Dean each wanted his turn to be a hero. (As if they weren't heroes already!) Consequently, there will be six parts to this tale, the final one to be posted very soon. _

**SNSNSN**

Pell-mell they raced under the dark trees, Sam of necessity trailing Joe, although he was the faster runner. At least Joe had a vague notion of where they were going. Sam did his best to aim the flashlight ahead of them, so they wouldn't run straight into anything, but unseen bushes caught at the hems of their jackets as they passed, and deadfall tripped them, once sending Joe headlong to the ground.

"Joe! We've got to slow down!" Sam ordered. "You're not going to do Virginia any good if you smack into a tree in the dark!"

Joe pulled himself off the ground, gasping for air. "You're right. Crazy—she's safe in the cabin. It's just, that howl...terrified me. I never heard anything like it, ever."

Sam took advantage of the respite to exchange the shotgun for his rifle, and to settle the duffel bag more comfortably on his shoulder. "Where are we headed?" he asked.

"That way." Joe waved his hand vaguely to the east. "To the river and down a mile, then another mile or so. Come on."

He set a saner pace this time, but their cross-country progress was still hampered by darkness. At last they could hear the river, and Joe angled them toward it. "We follow it to the footbridge," he said. "Cross it, and there's a path to the cabin. Be careful here—bank's steep, and these pine needles are slippery. Look out—ground gave way here for some reason."

And then the EMF meter went off again.

Sam jerked the rifle up, but found no target in the surrounding blackness. "Joe," he said, voice low and steady, "take this thing out of my jacket pocket and see if we can't follow the signal."

It led them down the slope and to the river, a dark ribbon against the pale gray of its graveled banks. There, the noise died away. Sam reclaimed the EMF meter, passed it over the rough ground around them. When it was clear there was no more signal, he returned it to his pocket.

"What the—" Joe stooped over to examine something near the shallows, then picked it up and held it out to Sam. "This your brother's?" he asked quietly.

Sam held the flashlight beam on Dean's shotgun for a long moment.

"Dean!" He roared, then spun wildly, calling out in all directions. "Dean! Dean!"

Something big and hard formed in his throat, so that he couldn't draw breath, and the ice settled back in his stomach.

They searched—searched hard—but there was no other sign of Dean, no sign of the sheep-killer, so at last they continued along the river, Sam plodding now, Joe still driven by his desire to see Virginia safe in her cabin. Sam tried not to stare at each dark rock along the river's banks, each pile of branches and leaves pushed into a mass by the current, willing it not to be Dean's drowned body, terrified that it would be.

_Get it together, Sammy!_ Dean said in his head, and Sam frowned. _Do what you do best—think!_

There was really nothing to think about. He didn't want to think, anyway. What point was there in thinking? Thinking only led you to imagining, and imagining only led you to—no, he definitely wasn't going to think about what he might imagine.

Not what he might imagine about Dean, anyway.

Sam stumbled as a rock shifted beneath his foot, almost stepped into the river's dark water. Nope, not going to imagine what might be in there—Sam was firm on that idea.

He might imagine things about the sheep-killer, however, like the what and the why and the how of it. That kind of imagining could prove useful in any number of ways. It would keep him from thinking, for one thing.

A dog with a new bone, Sam gnawed at the puzzle, following Joe blindly, flashlight aimed now at the ground under his feet. They still moved swiftly, across the narrow footbridge over the river, onto the hardpan dirt of the path leading to the cabin.

"Just another mile now," Joe called over his shoulder.

Sam almost passed it by before it registered—a dark splotch on the earth, where something viscous had puddled. He trained the flashlight beam on the splotch, bent over to touch it. It came away damp in his hands, and he knew what it was without having to look. Had seen it on the road, had seen it in the pasture.

"Joe!"

The herder stopped, came back to him at once. "What is it?"

Once again an obstruction in his throat temporarily disallowed speech as Sam searched the ground for more of the blood, finding it in dark drops and thin trails and one more puddle. He and Joe leaned close to see, and Joe pointed a finger at the claw-marks scoring through it.

"That looks like something was scratching at it, don't you think?" he asked, and Sam nodded thoughtfully, imagining.

"You ever see a dog trying to get at something it wants, Joe? Something on the ground, or in it? What does he do?"

"Digs it up."

"That's right. He finds it by its scent, and then he digs to get it. Sniff and scratch, scratch and sniff."

Joe was puzzled. "I get why this sheep-killing thing would sniff the blood, Sam, but why would it dig at it? That doesn't make sense to me."

Dean would've gotten it—would've made sense of the puzzle, Sam was sure. Suddenly angry, Sam whipped out the cell phone again, still had a bar, still got nothing but Dean's voicemail. "Dean!" he shouted into the phone. "Where the hell are you? Call me!"

Joe eyed him carefully, noting the tremble in the younger man's hand. "May I?"

The herder took the phone and carefully punched something in, obviously not all that familiar with the process of connecting. "Virginia has a cell, but she almost never uses it, since reception's so hard to get up here. I don't know if she'll answer, or if she's even got her phone turned on. What do I—?"

"Hit that, on the left," Sam instructed automatically. "There."

Joe nodded, punched the button, and waited.

"It's ringing," he said finally.

**SNSNSN**

Ginny clutched the blankets tighter around her swollen belly, then turned toward the door and screamed, "Get the hell away from my cabin, you son of a bitch! I'm trying to have a baby in here!"

Despite everything, Dean snorted back a surprised laugh. "You tell 'em, Tiger!"

"You shut up, and get us out of this mess!" she snapped, then waved the words away quickly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I think it's hormones."

There was sudden silence on the other side of the door, just long enough to make Dean wonder, but then they heard the scratching sound of claws on wood as the sheep-killer made its way around the side of the cabin, then along the back wall.

"What is it doing?" Ginny whimpered.

"There any other way to get in, except for the windows and door?" Dean asked, eyes darting everywhere, landing momentarily on his woeful stock of weapons. He hastily examined the fireplace, satisfying himself that the sheep-killer couldn't use it to come inside.

"Why doesn't it try the windows?" Ginny asked, and Dean shook his head.

"Don't know. They might be sealed better than the door, but—" He really didn't have an answer.

The creature continued its unnerving circumnavigation of the cabin, scoring the wood as it went. As it came to the end of its circuit, back at the door, it paused to inhale deeply as Ginny endured another long contraction.

Caught fast between the creature outside and the woman on the bed, Dean thought he had never felt quite so helpless. He stood transfixed, weight on his good leg, until the beast threw itself against the door again, once, and both he and Ginny jumped. The door still held, however, and the thing moved on, resumed its measured journey around the cabin.

"Dean? I hate to ask…." Her voice was tiny, and he turned to see her dash tears from her cheeks.

"Anything I can do," Dean offered.

"Can you massage my shoulders? Would you mind? It's supposed to help."

He tried it standing up, and when that didn't work, Dean sat beside her, facing her, but that wasn't very satisfactory, either. He wouldn't let her get up, so they maneuvered around each other until they were both on the bed, his front to her back, Ginny seated in the vee of his legs. Dean stretched his right leg out, cocking the knee slightly to keep the pressure off it, and planted his left foot on the floor. Ginny melted against him as he worked the knotted muscles in her shoulders and back.

"Do you have any children, Dean?" she asked. "Do you want them?"

Focused on the progress the sheep-killer was making as it moved around the cabin, Dean barely heard the questions. Twice the thing paused along the back wall, and he held his breath, listening for it, and then Ginny's voice caught him, brought him back to her.

"Your hands are so gentle," she whispered, and Dean couldn't remember the last time—no, couldn't remember _ever_ being called gentle, or feeling gentle, or _be_ing gentle.

He moved in closer, his left arm around her chest, allowing her to sag forward slightly, making tiny circles at the base of her skull with the fingers of his right hand.

In a moment, Ginny reached up and took his hand in hers, arranged his arms to that they encircled her. "Hold me tight, Dean," she said, then turned her head and lifted her mouth to him.

Dean ignored the torment in his body as he shifted and bent to her, drawing her firmly to him as their lips met and the next contraction shuddered through her. Fingers splayed in his hair, Ginny cried out against him but never pulled away, never broke the kiss, only pressed harder into him, trembling, the sound of her hurt turning to want and to need and to having and to letting go. Then for Dean there was no pain, until the contraction ended and for a time her agony was eased while his came flooding back.

Ginny leaned away from him, turned so that the fall of her dark hair hid her face from him.

"What was that?" he breathed, and she turned back to him, eyes filled with remorse and with gratitude.

"Hormones, Dean," Ginny said tenderly. "It has to be. Please understand."

There was nothing to do, then, but take his cue. Dean levered himself awkwardly out of the bed, groaning openly now, his knee tight, the lacerations on his upper body burning fiercely. There were fresh red stains across the shirt he wore, where his wounds had reopened.

This time, when the creature outside thrust its snout against the door and sniffed hungrily, Dean suddenly understood.

He looked across the cabin at his own clothes, draped beside the fire to dry, still damp with water and blood. He looked down again at the borrowed shirt, streaked with red. Looked at his left hand, bandaged now, but raw and bloodied when the sheep-killer had attacked him.

Dean thrust the chair away from the door and ripped the bandage from his hand, bringing his palm down hard on the chair-back, blood flowing freely again, held the hand to the space between door and floor, pressed his good shoulder against the door to keep it shut _(oh God keep it shut)_ as the evil thing sniffed once more and went ballistic against it, Ginny screaming every bit as loud as the beast was snarling, Dean just thinking, _I'll be damned. Can it be as simple as that?_

Somewhere in the cabin, a cell phone began to ring.

**SNSNSN**

Less than a mile away from the cabin, Sam and Joe could hear the din the sheep-killer made as it flung itself repeatedly against the wooden door. The night air was filled with its eager, sanguinary cries.

Then, filtered through the cell, Sam heard a woman scream, "Help! Help us!"—and somehow ohmyGod_ Dean_ shouting, "Ginny! Get back from the door!"

Sam grabbed the phone from Joe's hand as he sprinted down the path, away from the river, the herder in his wake. "Dean!" he bellowed into it, but it was impossible to hear whether he got a response, and Sam jammed the phone into a pocket as he ran.

Instinct guided him more now than the beam of the flashlight, and long legs worked to Sam's advantage, so that he quickly outpaced Joe. The EMF meter sirened to life somewhere in his jacket, and then—just ahead in a tiny clearing—narrow glowing streaks resolved into lamplight leaking from shuttered cabin windows and Sam saw something giant and gray crouching at the wooden door, then standing up against it, battering at it with its body, heaving back and trying again.

Still running, chest heaving, Sam raised his rifle, considered the shot, and discarded the idea until he got closer.

Then the clearing was full of light as the cabin door burst open and Dean appeared with a roar, swinging a large circular object at the creature's head, connecting audibly, a cloud of something—powder? confetti? neither made sense and Sam couldn't tell—_some_thing spraying around them. With a startled snort, the sheep-killer reared back, away from the cabin, dropping to all fours, shaking its head wildly. Dean lurched away from the door and into the clearing, something else in his hands now, stabbing downward into the beast's neck.

"Dean!" Sam screamed, at last close enough, and Dean staggered back a step as Sam brought the rifle up, aimed and fired in one swift, smooth motion, saw the impact as the cartridge hit the evil thing high in one shoulder. Sam fired again, but the sheep-killer was already in motion, vanishing into the darkness on the far side of the clearing.

Dean began a boneless slide to the ground as Sam pulled to a panting stop in front of him and grabbed him fiercely, holding him up, supporting him until Dean could slip an arm around Sam's shoulder and find his own feet.

"What took you so long, Sammy?" he asked dazedly, then flinched violently, almost out of Sam's grasp, as Joe burst into the clearing.

"Virginia!" the herder cried, rushing past them and disappearing into the cabin.

Sam struggled to catch his breath, taking stock of the fresh bloodstains on Dean's shirt—what the hell, turquoise?—and the frying pan and fireplace poker in his hands. His brother was battered terribly, and Sam thought he had never looked better.

"It is _so_ good to see you, man!" he gasped, grinning with relief.

"Back at you," was the whispered response, and for an instant Sam thought the arm around his shoulder tightened.

"Let me get that," Sam said, pulling his head back just in time to keep the frying pan from smacking him in the face as it wobbled in Dean's grasp, taking it quickly from him. "What, you were going to sauté it to death?"

Dean's laugh was sharp and maybe a little crazed. "Son of a bitch has a hungry nose on him, Sammy, and I needed him off-balance—" He grimaced, and Sam shifted his grip, realizing the hand he held around Dean's waist was now slick with blood. "I loaded the pan up with pepper and onion flakes and curry powder. Thought I'd give him something to snort before I took him out with this." Dean tried to lift the poker, but it tumbled from nerveless, bloodied fingers, and Sam guided him back toward the cabin, shaking his head in disbelief.

"That is truly the stupidest idea you have ever had, Dean."

"Yeah, well." Dean's breath caught as Sam readjusted his hold a second time. "That Joe?" he asked between clenched teeth, and Sam nodded.

"I take it you've met Virginia," the younger brother said.

"Ginny," Dean corrected him. "Yeah, we've met."

Sam nodded again. "Joe's going to propose to her tonight," he said randomly, and Dean cleared his throat.

"Interesting timing."

They were two steps away from the cabin door when Joe suddenly reappeared there. Even with the bright light behind him, Sam could tell that his face was pale and shocked.

"She told me to get out," the herder said, his voice curiously flat. "Said she wants Dean to deliver the baby."

**SNSNSN**

"It's coming, Dean—this baby is coming right now!" Ginny told him, propped up on her elbows, knees high and wide, eyes squeezed tight, blowing like she was putting out her birthday candles one at a time.

Dean somehow found the strength to move to her, sat at the foot of the bed, reached back and across for a worn but clean dish towel hanging near the stove.

"Why can't Joe be here, Ginny?"

She opened her eyes to glare at him, angry face softening the instant she saw him, saw the condition he was in. "Oh, Dean."

"Answer me."

"Joe's going to be a good father and a good husband," she said. "He's already a good friend. But he's not part of this, not yet. You are."

Ginny bore down suddenly, groaning, pushing for a long moment. When it passed, she beamed tiredly up at him.

"I know why you're here, Dean," she said. "You're here for that thing—to destroy that evil, murderous thing."

"Sheep-killer's still out there, Ginny. I haven't done anything."

"You will," she said. "I have faith in you."

She pushed hard again, teeth clenched, concentrating fiercely, Dean watching her with something akin to awe. "Come ON, baby!" she cried. "I haven't got all night!"

"Suck it up, cowgirl," Dean told her, reaching down as the baby's head began to crown. "We can do this."

**SNSNSN**

"Why didn't she want me, Sam?" Joe asked, flinching when Virginia cried out, lost in his own pain.

Sam struggled to find something helpful to say. "Joe, this isn't like lambing. This is a woman, a human being, and women in labor—well, they're so focused on giving birth, they don't always know what they're saying. Or they don't always mean it, anyway. Their hormones are crazy, they're having contractions, they're—" Sam gave up. "Man, I'm sorry."

Then a tiny voice wailed, there was a moment's pause, and Dean called, "Joe, get in here!"

Joe's eyes widened in terror, and he fled into the cabin, Sam following close behind.

Radiant, Ginny sat against the pillows, holding a small bundle against her breast, beaming at Joe, at Dean, at Sam—each of them in turn. Then she held out a hand to Joe, who moved toward her as though entranced, tears coursing down his cheeks as he dropped to his knees beside the bed. Ginny shifted, turning the baby so he could see its pink, wizened face amidst the blanket Dean had used to wrap it. "Her name's Stella," Ginny said softly. "Isn't she beautiful, Joe?"

"Oh, yes," he breathed, "She's so beautiful. Virginia, you're so beautiful." Joe's voice was thick with emotion, and he grasped Ginny's fingers, bringing them to his lips and kissing them gently.

Feeling like an intruder, Sam dropped his gaze to the floor, then glanced from under long hair at his brother. Dean stood at the foot of the bed, absently holding a soiled dish towel, chin high, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth, his eyes never leaving Virginia's face. Sam noted the exhaustion he expected, the gratification, but there was something more in Dean's expression, something Sam found unreadable. Loss, maybe, or regret.

Joe wiped the tears from his face and sniffed loudly, leaning in and murmuring so low that only Virginia could hear him, but Sam could see her face clearly. As she listened, she held the baby closer and looked up to meet Dean's gaze. There was an exchange somehow, Sam thought, a promise made, an alternative offered, futures planned and forgotten. Then Dean dropped his eyes, nodding almost imperceptibly, and Virginia nodded, too, and whatever had been between them was broken. She turned to Joe with a lovely and loving smile.

"Yes, Joe, I will," she said, for all to hear.

Joe yelped with delight, then pulled mother and child into his warm embrace.

**SNSNSN**

Sam helped Dean into the chair beside the door, parking himself on the half-empty firewood box nearby.

"Time to get serious, man," he said quietly. "That thing's still out there, and you know it could come back any time."

Dean dropped his head back against the chair, exhaustion etching deep lines in his face. "We gotta kill it, Sam, tonight."

"_How_ are we going to kill it, Dean? We don't even know what it is."

Wincing, Dean stretched his right leg out, rubbing distractedly at his knee. "No, but we've got some ideas. It looks like a werewolf, and it might react to silver like a werewolf."

"Yeah, but it sets off the EMF meter, so maybe it's affected by rock salt, too."

"Exactly. Also, it's corporeal, and it can be hurt. You've already shot it once, and I stabbed it with the poker." Dean drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, considering. "You can kill a chupacabra with just about anything."

"So…?"

"So, we use silver and salt and every weapon we can lay our hands on to kill it dead."

"Dean, man, you're in no shape to go anywhere, and I have to be honest with you—I'm not looking forward to hunting this thing on my own."

"You won't be alone, Sam—no way I want you out there without me. So we gotta be smart, set a trap, bring it to us."

"You have any ideas?"

"What does it want, Sammy?" It wasn't really a question, and Sam didn't like where this was headed.

"We think it wants blood," he said. "We think it craves the smell of blood, and when it can't find it naturally, it makes blood happen. Dean, I saw one of the sheep it killed, a female almost ready to give birth. I'm betting that was the case with most of the sheep that died—they were pregnant. Where there's birth, there's blood." Sam cast a glance across the room to the place where Joe and Virginia cuddled with the baby. "And if the dead sheep weren't pregnant, I'll bet they were injured somehow."

Dean was watching him lazily through half-closed eyes. "Can't prove that," he said, voice languid, and Sam thought he looked played out.

"No. But why else would this thing tear those sheep apart and then just leave them? Why did the EMF meter go off as we passed that dead possum?"

"Why did the bastard attack me after I hurt my hand? Why did it trail me here, when there are other things easier to kill? I believe you, Sam. Now tell me how it found these pregnant or injured sheep, and how it found me."

"Well," Sam hunched forward, intent on his theory. "I think it's kind of like a supernatural shark, Dean. If the current is right, a shark's olfactory tissues can sense extremely small amounts of dissolved chemicals over a mile away from their source. I think all the wind on this mountain tells that sheep-killer exactly where it needs to go."

For a moment, Dean just watched his brother's face. Then he sighed. "Sometimes you frighten me, Sam."

"This _thing_ frightens me, Dean. That baby over there has been covered in blood tonight. As has her mother. This werewolf-chupacabra shark-spirit, whatever the hell it is, it's going to be drawn to them."

"No." Dean opened his eyes and straightened in the chair, coming back to life suddenly. "No, Sam, it's going to be drawn to me, and that's going to be its last mistake. Here's what we do."

Five minutes later they had laid their plans, although Sam didn't like most of them. "Dean, we need to do more research. We can't even be sure salt and silver are going to affect it," he said. "You're counting on a miracle."

"We don't have time for research," his brother responded dismissively, turning his head to listen as the couple behind them laughed softly together. Dean looked back at Sam with a cunning smile. "Besides, it's a good night for miracles."

**SNSNSN**


	6. Chapter 6

**_Disclaimer_**: _I don't own anything "Supernatural." However, "Supernatural" apparently owns me! How I live for Thursday…._

**_A/N_**: _Well, this is it, the end of my first fan-fic. I'm so grateful that you've made it to this point, and I'm especially grateful to those of you who reviewed. You gave me lots to chew on—and I don't just mean my fingernails. Now I'm utterly terrified (in a pretty good way, because you've been so supportive, but still terrified!) of what you'll think of the ending. Tell me anyway, please. _

_This experience has been humbling and exhilarating and stressful and thought-provoking and challenging and obsessive and FUN. I'm so glad I did it! If you're at the stage where you're just considering developing your own first story, I'd encourage you to do it. If you're already posting your work, keep it up! I'm looking forward to reading it all! _

**SNSNSN**

Sam held his rifle at the ready, on guard while Joe made two fires, one on either side of the little clearing in front of the cabin. Funny how quickly some things could change—a man's relationship with a woman, for example—while some things seemed almost eternal. Like the Winchester brothers' bad ideas.

_Back in the cabin, he'd tried to get Dean to listen to reason. Said, "This is _such_ a bad idea, man. Dean, remember that Christmas when—"_

"_No, Sam, I don't." Which meant he did, of course._

"_Seriously, man, that time in Little Rock—"_

"_Sam!" Warning lights flashed brightly in Dean's eyes. "That evil son of a bitch died then, and this evil son of a bitch is going to die now. That's it—end of story."_

_So Sam had settled for convincing his brother to stay inside until he and Joe made things ready—didn't want the sheep-killer to come back too soon, did they? Spoil everything?_

**SNSNSN**

Three times Dean checked the shotgun, just making sure. He felt ill at ease, being inside with Ginny and the baby, while Sam was outside with that thing lurking in the darkness. Hell, he felt ill at ease just being with Ginny, after everything that had happened between them. And everything that hadn't.

"I don't get it," he said at last. She was watching him quietly from the bed, the baby sleeping in her arms, mother and daughter somehow seeming more together now than they'd been when Stella was inside her. "Why me?"

She didn't answer, so he pressed. "Why me, and not Joe? Why didn't you want him to deliver the baby?"

"I don't have to answer you," she said bluntly, and Dean blinked.

"No, I guess you don't. But I hope you'll explain it to me, Ginny, because something very weird happened here tonight, and I'd sure as hell like to know what it was."

She took a deep breath, considering. "Can you come over here?" she asked finally. "Sitting way over there by the fire, it's like you're miles away. I want to see your eyes."

To his bewilderment, Dean complied, levering himself out of the chair with the butt of the shotgun and moving haltingly to the bed. He sat down, facing her, and she reached up, placed her warm hand against his cheek.

"Before this was Stella," she began softly, lifting the little bundle she held, "before Stella was born, this was _my_ baby, Dean, and it was just that—it was _it_. In my womb, it belonged to me—the result of something I did, something that happened to me. Joe had no part of it, nothing to do with it. But now this _is_ Stella, and she's fresh and new, a clean slate. There's a beginning now, Dean, not a middle, and not an end. There's no more _it_. The clock for our three lives together started when _it_ became Stella—she and Joe and I have finally reached our beginning."

Dean cleared his throat. "Pardon my language, Ginny, but that's bullshit. We're talking about a difference of a couple of minutes, here. You could have let him help, but you didn't."

He pulled his head back, out of her reach, and she hesitated a moment before answering.

"Okay. Then here's the rest of it," she said, and the softness was gone from her voice. "When I told Joe that I was pregnant, I couldn't tell him anything about the man who—well, the man who was the biological father. All I had to offer was that he was out of the picture for good. Gone completely. Apart from that, there was really nothing more that I could say. Joe…went a little bit nuts."

"I get that," Dean said, nodding. "I saw him, Ginny. I heard his voice. Guy loves you."

Her reply was simple. "I know."

"Not too tough to understand that it'd be hard for him, picturing you with someone else."

"That's my point, exactly! Dean, it was horrible, watching him torture himself with the idea of me and someone else, especially a someone else who fathered my child. I don't know what all he imagined, but I know the terrible toll it took from him. I wanted to be able to erase any ugly images he had that related to me and to this baby. If I didn't, how could I be sure those images wouldn't haunt us for the rest of our lives?"

He looked at her sharply. "What's done is done, and you can't take back what's happened, Ginny. We know a little bit about that, Sam and me."

"But you can try to make 'what's done' the best it can be. Dean, I didn't know what to do…even if Joe got past it all, I wasn't sure that I could. So I thought about it, and I prayed about it, and then suddenly there was _you_. I think that for Joe, _you_ are going to become that faceless someone else. Maybe for me, too."

"Uh." Dean gave his head a little shake, momentarily at a loss for words, and Ginny smiled at his expression.

"Maybe it's crazy, Dean," she said. "Probably it's crazy, but…I think that whenever Joe wonders again about who else was involved in the baby's life, it'll be you that he imagines. Not some faceless man he's created in his mind, but you."

Dean groped for understanding, gave up fast. "You're going to have to help me out with this."

"It's hard to explain." Ginny sighed, frowning. "Of course, rationally, Joe will know that you aren't Stella's father. But literally, you _are_ the one who brought her into the world, and when he thinks about Stella's birth, you'll be the man he envisions."

"So I'll be the bad guy."

She laughed, the sound pealing around them. As if in response, a tiny pink fist waved from the depths of the baby's blanket. "Tonight you're kind of larger than life, Dean—I don't think anybody's going to mistake you for a bad guy."

"Except for that ugly bastard with the nose problem," Dean said firmly, checking the shotgun for the fourth time.

"Except for that," Ginny agreed, and her voice softened again. "Dean, I don't want you to think that I used you—please don't think that. Everything just seemed to come together so suddenly. I found you at the river, and then Stella wanted to be born early, and then Joe ran in—all three of you showed up at once, and I thought, how could there not be a reason for that? And I saw that there was a chance for resolution, a way for us to get past the faceless man. I don't know if it will help, if it will work, but I had to try."

After a long moment, Dean nodded, then met her beseeching gaze. "You said that guy was gone for good, Ginny," he said. "I'll be gone, too."

There was sorrow in her smile this time, and Ginny brushed a strand of dark hair off her forehead. "Here's the difference, Dean: I've seen you, and Joe has seen you. You're real—flesh and blood, not some imagined ghost."

The cabin door opened and Joe came in, surveying them quickly. "Fires are lit," he said, "and Sam went to get into position. Dean, you're sure I can't help out there?"

"You've got a family to think about," Dean said, his voice gruff, nodding toward mother and child. "That thing gets past Sam and me, you're going to be their last line of defense."

"It won't get past you." Seeing the look on the hunter's face, the herder sought thoughtfully to explain. "I'm certain about Sam, and if you're anything like him, then I'm certain about you. I have faith in the two of you, Dean. It will not get past you."

The two men exchanged a long, measuring look, and then Dean hoisted the shotgun, inhaling deeply. "Flesh and blood, huh?" he said to Ginny.

She nodded. "And possibly a little bit of angel. Jury's still out."

Dean threw back his head and barked a laugh, then held his hand out to Joe. The herder helped him to stand, helped him to walk, supporting him until Dean was outside and more or less balanced on both feet, light streaming around them from the open cabin door.

"Good luck, Dean," Joe told him, "and thanks for everything."

"Get inside now, and bolt the door," Dean ordered, and the brightness vanished as Joe silently complied.

There was still light in the clearing. The two fires blazed on either side, popping, sparks flying, allowing Dean to see and to be seen.

"Here I come," he called, knowing Sam heard him, hoping _(confident) _that the sheep-killer did, too. "Let's get this over with."

Dean hobbled away from the cabin, taking his time, careful not to put any more weight on his right leg than necessary, eyes constantly scanning the dark trees around him. When he was near the center of the clearing, he leaned over to prop the shotgun against his thigh, then removed his jacket and borrowed shirt, shrugged out of the longjohn sleeves until he stood bare-chested in the freezing night air.

"Come on, you bitch!" he yelled defiantly, yanking off the bandages that covered him so that fresh blood once again began to spill from his wounds. "Come and get it!" He ripped at his shoulder, clawed the bite-mark raw again, hissing as the blood flowed freely. "I hear you like your steaks rare!"

He picked up the shotgun, spread his arms wide and welcoming, turning in a slow circle so that the wind could catch his scent. Already he felt his strength being stolen by the bitter cold. "This sucker's fast, Sam," he warned the darkness. "Keep sharp."

_They'd been in Arkansas, and it was Christmas Eve when they passed through Little Rock, heard about the wood-wraith, learned it had taken a fifth-grader walking alone on her way home from a holiday pageant. "Dad, let me help!" 18-year-old Dean had urged, but John stabbed his finger in his oldest boy's face and said, "You get to the motel, check in, and watch out for your brother." Within an hour, John had rejoined them, found them right where he'd ordered them to be. The girl was safe in her family's arms, but the wraith had gotten away. John was hurriedly restocking his munitions, getting ready to go after it again, when the police showed up. Wanted him downtown to answer some questions. He had no choice but to accompany them. _

Prone on his belly beneath the trees, Sam breathed calmly, unhurriedly, careful to make no sound or movement that might reveal his location. I've got you covered, Dean, he promised silently. This time I've got you covered.

_It had been his idea to go after the wraith themselves, kill it before Dad got back from the police station, kind of like a Christmas present for him. At fourteen, Sam had begun to seriously chafe under his father's stern command, wanted to break away, break out, tired of always having to remain behind, stay safe. Maybe the idea had been more about rebellion than about giving John a gift, but it really didn't matter, because Dean was all for it, regardless of the reason. Minutes later they were at the field where John had last seen the evil thing, and Sam's blood raced as truth set in--he was finally going on his first real hunt. Dean was already out in the open, luring the thing to him, when Sam was finally settled enough to concentrate._

Dean shivered in the frigid night, every nerve on edge as he waited. He didn't bother looking for Sam, knew he wouldn't see him, knew Sam wouldn't let him down. Had faith. It was as simple as that.

_In retrospect, it was a really stupid plan, but he'd been frustrated, almost angry, when Dad had left him to watch Sammy. Again. God knew Dean certainly understood the kid's eagerness to go on his first real hunt, so it was a cocky big brother's magnanimous gesture to act as bait, play the sacrificial lamb to bring the wraith to him while Sam waited with the gun, hidden, bead drawn. Give little brother his first kill, give Dad a dead freak of nature—two presents for the price of one, and what could be better than that? Sam was a good shot, no qualms there, and a wood-wraith wasn't really anything to be worried about. _

Sam sighted down the rifle barrel, not feeling the cold seeping into his bones from the naked earth beneath him. He'd quickly cleared away the leaves and pine-straw before positioning himself sniper-style, so no rustle would betray him to the sheep-killer. In the flickering light from the two fires, he could see dark rivulets of blood running from a dozen wounds on Dean's chest, on his shoulder, as his brother offered himself up. Sweat beaded suddenly on Sam's forehead, trickling through his brows, and he blinked hard to clear it from his eyes.

_He'd been kneeling to get into position when he noticed his shoelace was untied. Setting the rifle down, Sam had tightened the string, tied the bow. Might as well check the other one, too, before he tripped if he had to run after that damn—his growth spurt had made him gangly and awkward, and Sam was clumsily shifting to see the other shoe when Dean yelled. Off-balance, Sam looked up in horror to see his brother and the wood-wraith grappling for Dean's shotgun, saw the thing wrench the weapon from Dean's hands and send it flying, saw it grab Dean at collar and crotch, lift him high, smash him hard to the ground. Sam had snatched up his rifle, taking quick aim and—the gun jammed, and panic flooded through him, robbing him of breath, sending blood pounding into his ears until he was almost deafened by it. Then louder, from behind him, there was a gunshot, and the wraith jerked and fell as John charged past Sam, emptying his pistol into the thing's head and chest._

The lacerations crisscrossing his body burned despite the cold. "C'mon, c'mon," Dean urged quietly through gritted teeth. "Get out here, you evil bastard. I don't want to freeze to death before you have a chance to kill me."

_Dad had really laid into him that night, and it never occurred to Dean that part of his father's fury stemmed from relief that both of his boys had escaped relatively unscathed. "What the hell were you thinking?" John had demanded, angrier than they'd seen him in a long time. He was rough as he cleaned the dirt from the scrape on Dean's forehead, where he'd hit the ground when the creature threw him. "How could you put your brother in a situation like that? Didn't you check the rifle, make sure it was clean? That was a stupid, stupid thing you did, and you could've gotten someone killed!" Dean had caught Sam's eye, saw the remnants of terror there, the apology, the silent plea for forgiveness. Then he saw the self-loathing, too, so intense that it scared him. "I didn't think it through, Sammy," he'd told his little brother later that night, when John's heavy, even breathing told them their father was at last asleep. "It wasn't your fault." Dean had believed it, had hoped Sam believed it. Still did._

There was movement, darkness against darkness, and then the thing stepped into the clearing, eyes glittering, hunched close to the ground so that it was nearly on all fours, lips curled back in a grinning rictus that was salacious and challenging and victorious all at once.

"It's here, Sam," Dean said, his low voice carrying. Dean brought the shotgun up almost casually as the beast snarled deep in its throat and chest, then came toward him, moving slowly, in stalking stance. Human eyes met inhuman, locked and held, and Dean planted himself securely, all his weight on the left. He took in a long, unhurried breath, watched the thing gather its hind legs under it, trembling with anticipation. He was almost ready when it sprang, claws reaching for his throat.

Then Sam fired, and the creature yelped, thrown off-target as the silver-dipped cartridge tore through its head. Something that might have been blood once gouted from the bullet-hole, fell like _(curry powder)_ to the ground, vanished in the darkness there. Sam fired twice more, each time finding his mark, and Dean blasted the thing full of rock-salt for good measure as it crumpled to the ground in front of him, dead.

The strength drained out of him, and Dean staggered, then fell to his left knee, right leg stretched out painfully beside him. Inches away, the sheep-killer's body began to writhe, imploding, smoke curling from it, its hair and flesh being eaten away from within by the loss of whatever force had brought it to life and kept it alive.

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch," Dean murmured, as Sam ran toward him across the clearing, rifle still ready. Together they watched as the carcass twisted and wriggled into nothingness. Within seconds, it was gone.

Breath coming in plumes, Sam shrugged out of his jacket and draped it carefully around his brother's naked shoulders, throwing his arm around, too, sharing his warmth as Dean sagged shivering against him. Reaching into a pocket, he withdrew the EMF meter, which registered with a squeal that quickly faded to silence.

"So what the hell was that thing?" Sam asked softly.

It took Dean a moment, staring thoughtfully at the ground where the thing had died. Then he looked up at his brother, a slight smile on his battered face.

"Ghost of Christmas Past, Sammy. And we laid it to rest."

**SNSNSN**

Shortly after dawn, there was the sound of engines as Mel arrived with two other men from Stoner's Well, crowding two Jeeps and an ATV into the little clearing in front of the cabin. Bound for the county hospital in Creekside, fifty miles away, Joe carried Ginny and the baby to one of the Jeeps, installing them tenderly in a back seat before climbing into the driver's seat himself, Mel riding shotgun, tiny Stella wearing the reindeer ski-cap to keep her head warm.

"Sam, thanks again," Joe called, having expressed his gratitude to both brothers profusely throughout the early morning hours. "Dean, thanks for everything, really. I don't know how to repay you guys for what you've done."

Ginny looked over her shoulder at Dean as Sam helped him into the other Jeep, caught his eye, kissed the air and blew it gently toward him.

Dean extended the thumb and little finger of his left hand and held them up to his ear and mouth, then pointed at her sternly. Ginny laughed and rolled her eyes, holding up her cell phone so he could see it, gripping it firmly, waggling it, nodding big in affirmation.

Bless you, she mouthed. Then Joe maneuvered the vehicle into the trees and they were gone.

**SNSNSN**

Sam retrieved the Impala and gassed it up while the only GP in Stoner's Well interrupted his breakfast to patch Dean thoroughly and pronounce him unfit for anything except bed-rest for the next two weeks. Sam got back to the clinic in time to hear Dean grumble, "Come on, doc, you can do better than that!"

More interested in returning to his wife's holiday pancakes than in arguing, the doctor had consulted his book, then made a notation in it and on the appointment card he handed to Dean. "Fine," he agreed amiably. "I'll see you then."

"Man, stop hovering! It's just four steps," Dean growled as Sam took his elbow and held the clinic door open for him, moving to one side so Dean had plenty of room to ease himself into the Impala's back seat, ready to jump to his brother's aid should he need it.

Dean backed him off with his new cane, laying it across Sam's chest in mute warning.

"I'm hungry and I hurt," the older Winchester muttered. "I hate this freaking cane. And I already hate this town, Sammy, I'm telling you. We are so not going to be here until the sixth of January."

"Sixth of January?" Sam cocked his head, then deftly caught the appointment card Dean flipped at him. He scanned it briefly, then broke into a wide grin.

"Epiphany!" he said triumphantly. "Of course!"

"Epipha-what?" Dean asked.

"The sixth of January is Epiphany, Dean. Twelve days away."

"That's what I'm saying—I'm not staying here for twelve days."

"It's twelve days after Christmas."

Dean turned to him, leaning against the side of the trunk as he stared up at his brother. "I think you need some sleep, Sammy."

"No, Dean—I've been thinking about it," the younger Winchester replied, and Dean recognized the signs of a full-on college-boy brainstorm fast approaching. When Sam got like this, very little could stop him. "All this random stuff that's happened to us since yesterday, it's like it's part of a miracle or something."

"Yeah, my knee feels pretty miraculous, all right," Dean replied cautiously.

Sam's eyes were bright as he connected the dots, his grin broadening. "There's definitely a pattern," he said. "Man, my old psych professor would have had a field day with this!"

"Sammy, I see wheels turning in your head, but they're not getting any traction."

"All I'm saying, Dean, is that the synchronicity is pretty amazing."

"What, that old Police album?"

Surprise brought Sam back to earth. "You listen to The Police?"

"What are you thinking, dude?" Dean asked in disgust. "'Every Breath You Take' is totally about a stalker demon."

After a moment's reflection, Sam conceded the point. "Funny," he said, "I used to think of Dad as the King of Pain."

Dean shot him a look, which Sam ignored as he continued enthusiastically. "See, Dean, even _that_ helps prove my point. Synchronicity is about cosmic connections between what appear to be coincidences. Jung believed that seemingly unrelated events could actually be caused by something that gave them a meaningful relationship, which he called--"

"Yeah, yeah, synchronicity, I get it," Dean finished for him, then snorted. "That's not Jung, that's 'Repo Man.' C'mon, Sam, really—plate o' shrimp? That's what we're talking about here?"

Sam gaped at his brother, then closed his mouth with a snap. "Okay, I take back what I said about you and cultural references. My point is, Dean, it's like we're in the Nativity story, here—all of these coincidences relate to Christmas somehow. Look at them—we meet a couple named _Joe_ and _Virginia_," he emphasized the names, "she bears a child that's not his, they call her Stella…."

Dean was beginning to get the picture. "And 'Stella' is Latin for—"

"'Star.' Exactly—it's Latin for 'star,'" said Sam. "And the coincidences don't stop there, Dean. There's flocks by night. After the baby's born—on Christmas Day, in case you hadn't noticed— three guys show up, and one of them is named Mel. As in Melchior? One of the Wise Men? Dean, the doctor wants to see you again on freaking Twelfth Night." Sam spread his arms wide, daring all comers to challenge his conclusion. "It's all connected, man. I'm not saying anything caused it, but we've been _living_ in Christmas!"

Dean chewed briefly on his lower lip, then shook his head, not buying it. "So then, what does that make us, Sam?" he scoffed. "The animals in the stable?"

"Well, you're certainly a jackass," Sam averred, hands on his hips.

It was just a moment before Dean chuckled, then laughed big and loud as Sam grinned back, watching Dean turn and climb cautiously into the rear of the Impala, propping his right leg up on the seat.

Sam made sure Dean was settled before he closed the door gently, solidly against his brother's back and got behind the wheel.

"Sorry we didn't go to the roadhouse, man," Dean said out of the blue, his voice betraying the depth of his exhaustion. "Maybe next year."

Sam put the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life. "Whatever." He met his brother's gaze in the rearview mirror. "You were right, Dean. I really don't need to spend Christmas with other people. I've got you."

"Oh God." Dean rolled his eyes, and Sam's smile grew.

"Merry Christmas, jerk!" he said.

He could almost see the word perched on Dean's mouth, but then his brother surprised him with a wry smile.

"Merry Christmas, Waindeer Boy."

Dean nestled down into the seat more comfortably, closing his eyes and drawing his arms around him for warmth, while Sam put the car in gear and drove them off the mountain and out of Stoner's Well.


End file.
